


Hiraeth

by CateAdams



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Damaged Bond, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Pon Farr, Slow Burn, T'hy'la
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 16:20:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 88,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5134430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CateAdams/pseuds/CateAdams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After pon farr and their fight on the hot sands of Vulcan, a bond is discovered between Jim and Spock. This new intimate link, hidden necessarily even from McCoy, deepens their already strong relationship, providing a new definition of home for each of them.</p><p>However, in the aftermath of a telepathic attack on an alien world, misunderstandings and unseen damage create a devastating rift between the two men. Amidst a destructive interplanetary conflict, they are each forced to face alone the consequences of their deepest secret.</p><p>Against all odds, beset on all sides, will the promise of t’hy’la persevere? Or will the command team of the Enterprise fall, taking the stability of the Federation with it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Mind, To Yours

_Hiraeth : a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for lost places._

 

Chapter One: My Mind, To Yours

 

     They faced each other again in the low light of Spock’s quarters, their positions mirroring that other discussion where difficult truths had been revealed: deep cultural secrets and a looming loss of control. This time, however, the very air felt haunted with cruel experience and complicated by a much more intimate revelation. The reality of the fight in the red sands of Vulcan could not be relegated to simple memory, now bound as it was in this nascent connection between them.

     Even as he clung to it as a desperate final defense, Spock’s veneer of impassivity was faltering, and his just-spoken words seemed to hover in the heavy silence: _We share a bond, Jim._ The Vulcan had thought that the worst lapse of his emotional control had already occurred with the impossibility of Jim alive and grinning at him in sickbay, but he had been so very wrong. Spock had followed his captain to the bridge and had dared to imagine himself again secure behind implacable walls, only to have their tender mental link slowly revealed as his own shock had begun to ebb.

     Now, the captain stood stiffly with his hands clasped behind his back. Perhaps itself a defense or possibly a nod to Vulcan propriety, it would not be the first time he had adapted the customs of another in order to facilitate honest discussion. And Jim’s reply, when it came, lacked any surprise.

     “How?”

     Spock’s exhaustion, born of weeks of minimal sleep and nourishment, the fierce stresses of the rising blood fever, and the catastrophic battle on the surface of his estranged homeworld, seemed suddenly nearly insurmountable, and the Vulcan bowed his head, reaching out to grasp the back of his desk chair. “I cannot be certain. The situation in which we find ourselves is a significant deviation from the cultural norms with which I am familiar.” Spock could not suppress the bitter thought that his entire life had been a deviation from traditional Vulcan expectations.

     “In what way a deviation?” The captain’s immediate query held a dangerous tone and Spock narrowly avoided shifting uncomfortably. It was everything he could do to shield and his controls were practically nonexistent, his mind sluggish.

     “Bonds are put in place at a young age. Minds are linked and tradition is strictly followed.”

     “But things happen. People die; they change their minds.” Jim’s voice sharpened, “The bride declares a fight to the death.”

     Spock flinched and crossed his arms over his chest. T’Pring’s contempt for him and for his human companions had come across with painful clarity. “The _kalifee_ had not been invoked for centuries; it was quite unexpected.” He looked away. “As was this.”

     “Perhaps not totally unexpected.” Jim sighed, releasing his tight stature to walk over and perch on the narrow couch across the room, rubbing a hand over his face as he looked back at his friend. “It happened during our fight?”

     “Yes.” Spock shook his head, still looking away. “The combat evidently facilitated the termination of my betrothal bond in a way that should not have happened. When…during…when we… .” He trailed off helplessly, shame curling his insides.

     “When we were rolling around in the sand on top of each other,” Jim finished, a ghost of a smile playing about his lips.

     “Affirmative.” Spock shot him a frosty look before continuing, his words uncharacteristically running together, “Another bond spontaneously took its place. I surmise that our intrinsic compatibility, close physical contact, and the disordered, profoundly uncontrolled state of my mind conspired to—.”

     “Spock,” Jim interrupted gently. “That’s what I meant when I said it wasn’t totally unexpected. This…this _draw_ between us has always seemed to be there. We’re friends and—.”

     “A spontaneous bonding link does not form between _friends_ ,” Spock interrupted heatedly, realizing only too late what he had given away. He saw Jim’s eyes widen slightly before the captain shrugged with almost calculated casualness.

     “Well, you said it.”

     “Captain—.”

     The human kept talking, “The bond to T’Pring broke.” Jim narrowed his eyes as he spoke the woman’s name. “And ours formed.” He let out a dry chuckle and leaned back, crossing his legs. “Probably not what she expected when she woke up this morning. I wonder if T’Pau would have made us keep fighting if Bones hadn’t pulled his little stunt.”

     Spock swallowed, considering that something else might very well have taken place there on the sand. The shock of Jim’s apparent death had been devastating, and in the powerful surge of emotional energy any remnant of the mating urge had retreated. But if Jim had still been there, warm and writhing beneath him, the new bond calling to his own fevered mind, Spock knew that he might have… .

     The Vulcan turned abruptly, his hands clenching into fists as he felt his face contort. He did not wish to be seen like this, not even by Jim and not even after what his friend had already witnessed. He felt naked, exposed in a way he had never been before and he couldn’t think… .

     “Spock?”

     The Vulcan blinked twice, lifting his hands to his temples. He had finally lost any semblance of control, the charged and dangerous conversation finally overwhelming him, and he heard a tremor in his voice as he muttered, “I was lost to myself, and to you. I believed that I had killed you. And if I had not killed you, then I would have done worse.”

     “Worse.” It was not a question, but Jim sounded confused. “Than killing me? You mean—?” He cut his words off abruptly and Spock heard another, deeper, sigh, the dawning of understanding. The captain’s voice was strangely kind. “If you had been forced to do that, Spock, I would have understood.”

     “You cannot—!” The Vulcan choked off his protest, too close to the edge, suddenly mired in a slew of inescapable emotions. His heartbeat was too fast, the chemical signatures of the aborted _pon farr_ still lingering in his blood. And would the symptoms return? Now, with this new bond initiated, would the cycle simply begin again? Would the eventual retreat of shock and emotional intensity allow the fever to recur? And in the fullness of it would he be compelled to—? He closed his eyes, his legs giving out from under him, falling to his knees on the floor of his quarters and dimly hearing his name called from behind him.

     There was movement, and then he felt hands on his shoulders, and with his shields gone, his friend’s mind was helplessly open to him now. Jim was frantically worried about him: the human’s thoughts racing through possibilities, conjectures, and calculations, trying to solve an apparently unsolvable problem. But beneath it all, astonishingly, Spock sensed deeper, stronger emotions: powerful affection and driving fear. The fear was of loss, of losing Spock, and the affection held countless dimensions of comfort and loyalty and love, bound in unique steel.

     It was too much for his oversensitive, overwrought telepathy, and Spock tried to pull away. But Jim’s hands were firm, holding on with what seemed like inhuman strength, or perhaps Spock was simply that depleted. The Vulcan yielded finally, his shoulders slumping, his head bowing, sensing Jim kneeling behind him, and the hands slid forward into an embrace, the human’s forehead coming down to rest against the back of Spock’s shoulder.

     “My friend,” Jim whispered, the colors of his mind so bright and within them was the acknowledgement of all they were to each other: things spoken and unspoken, things shown or simply understood, triumphs and struggles, new perspectives and gentle familiarity, and a unique, beloved connection that, until now, had been mostly human in scope.

     “My dear friend, don’t you see? It only makes sense for us to be _this_ , too.”

     “Jim.” Spock’s reply was tremulous, full of all the admitted terror of what might happen should his biology assert itself again, his control vanishing _again_. “I will not—.”

     He did not expect the captain to chuckle, his friend’s arms tightening slightly before sliding away as Jim leaned back to sit cross-legged on the carpet, watching him with bright, hazel eyes.

     Uncertain as to how to interpret the confusing jumble of emotion that had flared between them, Spock haltingly mimicked his friend’s position, folding his own hands tightly. His perception of Jim’s mind had dimmed with their separation and he involuntarily chased after it along their new bond, disconcertingly unable to help himself. He had been driven to T’Pring without a choice in the matter, and his need for her had been purely physical: for survival and blind relief. Now, his need was colored by want, by a desire that he would never have allowed to emerge if it weren’t for his shattered control, and it was terrifying. He realized belatedly that he was shaking.

     In front of him, Jim had sobered and was staring at him intently. “If this is about sex, then you have to know,” he shrugged, “I’d be honored.” Almost as soon as the words came out of his mouth, the captain’s lips curled wryly. “More than honored, actually.” His cheeks colored slightly as his lashes lowered, but just as quickly his gaze lifted again and his expression was searching. “But that’s not what you need right now, is it?”

     “No,” Spock whispered, almost rendered mute by this human’s confounding intuition and determination.

     “But another time?” Jim waved a hand, somehow easily brushing aside the paralyzing gravity of Vulcan taboo. “If the fever comes again? Or even in another seven years?”

     “Yes.” Spock’s reply was almost inaudible. He wanted to say more to dissuade Jim, to protect him, to keep his friend safe from what would surely be a shameful loss of control, an animalistic display… .

     “Fine. Done.” Jim raised his eyebrows, prompting him, “Alright?”

     Spock blinked and the captain continued briskly, “Aside from that, I can’t feel much, but I can feel that you need…something, though.” He tilted his head, shifting himself forward so that their knees brushed. “Meld with me?”

     Spock’s right hand lifted almost involuntarily, reverently, hesitating slightly as he reached for the psi points, his eyes searching his friend’s face as Jim boldly lifted his chin and closed his eyes.

     When the hesitation stretched, Jim’s eyes opened again, a quizzical expression crossing his features.

     Spock’s fingers moved reflexively at the sight of that piercing hazel gaze, but when he touched his friend’s face it was not a joining but a caress. Jim’s lips parted in a surprised inhale, and then he closed his eyes again, leaning his head into the Vulcan’s touch.

     Spock’s breathing had quickened, and he watched his own fingers trace over human skin, brushing into soft hair and over a rounded ear and then down his friend’s jawline.

     Hazel eyes opened again as the Vulcan’s hand fell away and Jim’s brow furrowed. “Alright?” It was a completely different question from before, and Spock slowly nodded.

     “Why did you do that?” The human’s question was encouraging. “Touch me like that?”

     “I apologize—,” Spock began instinctively.

     But Jim cut him off with a firm gesture. “Stop it, you know I welcome your touch.” He paused, his eyes lowering. “But you know why I haven’t—.” His voice trailed off and his gaze rose, his brow furrowed. “I’m not a telepath. I need you to tell me.”

     Spock’s back straightened. “Demonstration of…of affection is normally pursued between—.” He let his words fall away. How to explain that he had wanted to make his own offering of trust, as Jim had offered his own mind so freely? How to explain that he wanted to express his regard in human terms, however difficult and untried, as Jim had given of himself so selflessly both here and on red sands?

     Jim tilted his head. “And you have…affection for me?” He asked as if he already knew the answer, a smile again ghosting over his mouth.

     The Vulcan stared at him, unable to respond, pushed far beyond his emotional limits already.

     The human nodded slowly. “I think I understand. May I?”

     The Vulcan looked down to see Jim’s right hand extended between them. Cautiously, Spock reached out, and his own eyes closed as Jim’s fingers brushed his, moving forward, interlacing with his own. Gentle, tentative at first, the clasp was intimate for a touch telepath, the first attempt at such intimacy that the Vulcan had ever consciously allowed, and Spock’s nerves shuddered, sang, and then soared as their palms came together.

     “Spock.” The Vulcan’s eyes opened at the concern in the human’s voice. “You’re shaking again. Too much?”

     Spock remembered to breathe, looking down to see the fine trembling along his hands and his brows drew together as he pulled away. Jim didn’t protest, dropping his own hand to his lap and studying his friend’s dark eyes, appearing unperturbed at his friend’s reaction.

     “If it helps, I can tell you how I feel. You may already know, but consider it a nod to human convention.” Jim wore a casual smile, but his tone was serious, his eyes intense. “I find a sanctuary in you that I’ve never known before. It’s something I feel I’ve always wanted and never knew to ask for.” He folded his hands in front of him, continuing frankly, “It’s hard to put it any differently except to tell you that I need you and I don’t know how Vulcans express that.” He paused, frowning slightly. “If they even do.”

     “I do not know.” Spock exhaled, realizing that he didn’t. “But I also…find sanctuary in you, Jim.”

     The words would have seemed profoundly alien to him, except that they resonated with particular rightness with regard to his perception of the bond. Jim’s acceptance, trust, _friendship_ : all things that should have been immaterial and even shameful according to the rigorous rationality of his upbringing, were cherished. Perhaps it was his complete exhaustion and collapse that enabled him to enunciate this, but it would now be illogical to deny it. _Kaiidth_. Their cautious approach to each other had now taken on the delight and comfort of expectant inevitability.

     In the wake of Spock’s tentative words, the human’s smile was a brilliant thing. “My friend, I want to see that. Let me?”

     “Yes.” Spock reached out again, and as his fingers made contact with Jim’s meld points he murmured, “ _T’hy’la t’nash-veh_.”

     There was the shock of initial contact, then warmth and light, fading desperation and the blooming of tentative hope. Spock drunk from the depths of his friend’s powerfully compatible and eagerly offered mind, soothing the lingering turmoil and bringing a semblance of calm to his _katra_. The blurred lines of their relationship were even paler here, potential now an unabashed driving force held at bay by neither man’s willingness to push the other. For Spock’s deepest thoughts held apprehension, equating the expression of his own sexuality to the bleak, yawning grief of those moments when he believed Jim lost by his own hand and Jim’s mind, however open, humanly resisted complete exposure and surrender. But, the human finally understood what connected them, accepting it even as he had accepted everything about his half-Vulcan best friend. And Spock had fallen into his _t’hy’la_ ’s mind: unconstrained, unshielded, and exuberantly passionate, Jim’s thoughts and emotions seemed to accommodate any remaining excess energy, leaving elusive calm behind.

     When the intimate joining slowly ebbed, Spock’s fingers lingered on cool skin in an echo of the tentative caress from earlier. His thumb slowly and carefully slid along the fullness of Jim’s lower lip, following its curve as the human smiled, hazel eyes still closed.

     “Better?” Jim murmured, and Spock sensed the tug of Jim’s thoughts at the fringes of their bond, involuntarily reaching for what they had shared. The Vulcan let two fingers pair, tracing Jim’s cheekbone before reluctantly pulling his hand away.

     Only then did Jim’s eyes open, and Spock could clearly read some odd mixture of joy, hope, and concern in their depths. Wanting to reassure, the Vulcan nodded in the human way. “Yes, Jim. I am…much improved.”

     The concern faded slightly, but Jim still studied him for a long moment before his smile turned wry. “We’ll do this again,” he said firmly, and his tone clearly conveyed his skepticism of Spock’s assessment. His head tilted and he winced dramatically as he stretched a leg out. “Maybe not on the floor, though.” He slowly unfolded himself, standing and offering his hand to his friend, and his expression now was proof that he knew full well what he was offering, and accepting.

     Spock hesitated only an instant before reaching back, and as he clasped his friend’s hand he felt the contact illuminate their mental dynamic.

     Jim grinned shamelessly and the Vulcan’s breath caught in his throat, an unfamiliar thrill chasing down his spine.

     “We’ll go slowly,” Jim said softly. “But I want—.” He trailed off, his grip firming before he released his hand, lifting his chin almost defiantly. “I want you at my side, always.” There was deep significance in the words: a promise, a plea, and a command.

     Overwhelmed, all Spock could do was stiffly nod, and he noticed that Jim seemed to be waiting after their hands separated, hazel eyes inexplicably and intently searching the Vulcan’s features.

     Blinking and confused as to an appropriate response, Spock haltingly clasped his hands behind his back. He could read the tiredness hovering over the captain’s face, certain he had taxed his friend too much already, and he himself was profoundly exhausted mentally and physically, his thoughts scattered, his own posture bowed.

     The captain’s expression sobered, falling into its usual command lines as his lips pressed together and he stepped back. He exhaled through his nose, a glint of wistful affection shining in his eyes. “Get some sleep, Spock. And if you need me, for anything, let me know. That’s an order.”

     Another helpless nod, and Spock watched the human retreat through their shared bathroom, briefly closing his own eyes, exhaustion still heavy along his limbs. The meld had been transformative: his restlessness had vanished, and his mind felt clear for the first time in weeks. Or perhaps even more significant than that, he felt…contentment where before he had known only suppression and…dread. The place in his mind that he had always, consciously or unconsciously, protected himself against, like a barely-healed wound, was now a place of solace. T’Pring’s mind had always been shrouded to him, and only with its absence, and now the presence of another did Spock recognize the severity of the loneliness and the pain that was bound within his sense of her. It had been a wound, held for thirty years, laced with denial and regret and bitterness from both sides. Now, alone, alive, and with the knowledge that he was wanted and accepted by another, he could sense the lack of it as if a physical weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He considered briefly if his former betrothed was, even at this moment, experiencing the same freedom and he felt a pang of blazing anger, a bad taste at the back of his mouth, a surge of unexpected heat that made him sway.

     He hissed as the room spun around him, feeling sharp fear chase the rage; he was not centered, he still had no control, and even the transient calm brought by their meld was helpless beneath the power of resurgent Vulcan emotion and the instability dictated by his own fatigue. He closed his eyes, reaching for something to hold onto, knowing that meditation was necessary and unable to find a place to start, and then his mind clasped strongly onto the bond.

     Bright to his telepathic perception, though not nearly as defined as it might evolve to be, it was warm and gentle and imbued with everything that had sung through their meld, everything that made their friendship so inviolable. And Spock exhaled, slowly lowering himself without ceremony to his knees there on the floor of his quarters, allowing the light of his friend’s unknowing mind to surround him. The excess emotions drained away, as before, leaving the possibility of focus, and the lure of some measure of elusive peace.

 

 


	2. Redefinition

Chapter Two: Redefinition

 

     Sleep had eluded Spock despite his pervasive exhaustion, but the inner tumult of his mind had subsided somewhat with the link with his friend: not enough for meditation, but sufficient for him to begin to contemplate the significance of their connection. Jim had slept deeply, unconsciously having released unintentional barriers between them, and Spock had, despite himself, wondered at the natural acceptance between their minds.

     Even now, with the barest beginnings of a bond, Spock envisioned their mental entanglement as a sensate entity all its own. He was not equipped with the ability or perhaps the poetry to fully describe his awareness of their joining except to equate it with the sensation he experienced when immersed in a piece of music or encountering a mathematical formula of exquisite simplicity. Spock considered that this might represent what mental compatibility could and should be: two attuned individuals, each finding some degree of fulfillment within the other. He wondered if the significant emotional component of _this_ bond, however, was due to Jim’s humanity, or to his own. And what did that mean, if he was able to find peace only in this circumvention of the strictures and expectations of Vulcan society?

     Spock stood in front of the small mirror in his quarters, tugging the bottom of his blue tunic and lifting his chin. His expression was properly impassive and despite the gauntness and fatigue still hovering over his features, he believed that no one would guess at the lingering fracture within his mind. His thoughts dwelled on his _t’hy’la_. The human concept of _belonging_ had always been foreign to Spock, until now. Perhaps it was only that he, in his vulnerability, had now awakened to an undefined middle ground between the stark rigidity of Vulcan and the creative fluidity of Earth. Perhaps only now because he had been shown a place, a _person_ , who represented a refuge where the unique convolution of his own identity could be accepted and cherished without condition or design.

     The Vulcan lowered his gaze, the chrono on the wall confirming that he was due on the bridge in twenty point three minutes; his time sense was returning, at least. He exhaled through his nose and straightened his shoulders, turning toward the door and exiting into the corridor. The brightness of the ambient lighting was not nearly as overwhelming as when the fever was ravaging his systems, the scents and sounds now not nearly as sharp and the background mental clamor of over four hundred humans not nearly as engulfing. He could sense Jim clearly, though, and pondered briefly if the improving mental clarity he was experiencing was truly due to recovery or simply due to the stabilizing presence of the bond itself. The thought was troubling, and, in the process of contending with that emotion, he was unable to avoid being startled by a sharp address behind him.

     “Mr. Spock!”

     The Vulcan blinked as he heard McCoy’s distinctive footfalls rapidly approaching, his mind belatedly supplying that he had missed a follow-up in sickbay that morning.

     “Spock!” the doctor repeated, sounding annoyed and out of breath, and Spock stepped to the side of the corridor, folding his arms over his chest and feeling his jaw tighten as the human’s emotional bearing swirled over him.

     “Yes, Doctor,” he replied crisply.

     The doctor’s blue eyes narrowed. “You missed your appointment.”

     Logic suggested that Spock admit his mistake. However, logic was not presently the commanding force it might have otherwise been. “The appointment was no longer necessary.”

     “Oh, really.” McCoy drew himself up, mirroring Spock’s stiff stance. “Did I miss the official announcement of your new medical degree, then? Would’ve saved me the effort of running after you through the hallways.”

     Spock raised an eyebrow at the other officer’s sarcasm, casting a subtle glance around at the nearly deserted corridor. At his hesitation, McCoy’s mouth pressed into a combative line and the Vulcan internally sighed, unwilling to struggle against both the doctor and his own frustrating lack of emotional control. “Walk with me, Doctor.”

     McCoy grunted, but followed Spock into the nearby Deck Five briefing room, waiting until the door had slid smoothly shut before turning, his expression both expectant and wary.

     Spock inclined his head resignedly. “I assume you have brought your portable scanner.”

     McCoy blinked and then smiled. “Well, Spock, that’s a surprise; I thought we were going to have to argue this one out for another few minutes.”

     Spock lowered his eyes, not responding as the doctor pulled the small device and a compact medical tricorder from his belt, muttering to himself as he waved the scanner over the Vulcan’s body.

     “Hmmm. Much better. Body temperature, respiration…you’re not a ticking time bomb anymore, as far as I can tell.” He frowned, peering at his patient. “I’d like to take a blood sample, though, just to be sure. And I didn’t bring my kit, so—.”

     “I shall report to sickbay at the midpoint of my shift.” Spock felt his dubious façade of impassivity wavering at the thought of being subjected to more medical scrutiny. He longed suddenly for his station on the bridge, for the familiarity of diagnostics and hard data, for the possibility of unrelenting focus, and for the soothing proximity of his captain. He recognized immediately that it was dangerous to _want_ like this: another certain indication that, despite his physical improvement, he was not nearly recovered.

     “Right.” McCoy took a step back, his gaze assessing. “Spock, I’m not gonna beat around the bush. When you and Jim left sickbay yesterday I was only cautiously optimistic. You were alive and Jim was alive and neither of you were going to be drummed out of the Fleet, but the way that your symptoms just seemed to disappear—.” He trailed off, his voice turning clipped and clinical. “I was, and am, very much worried about an eventual relapse.”

     “That is unlikely at this point, Doctor,” Spock replied with a flippant note of dismissal. Irritation intensified within him; he did not wish to discuss this. Not now, when he had only just managed to begin to calm his mind. Not now, when the revelation of his bond with Jim was so raw and unguarded and unexplored, its warm, constant presence the only thing that was allowing Spock any appearance of dignity.

    “And why’s that?” McCoy asked, his eyebrows lifting.

     “The fever is cyclical.” Spock spoke reflexively and tritely, not wanting to reveal the growing cascade of disturbing thoughts and feelings that streamed uncontrollably through his mind. Was this the beginnings of panic? He felt his nostrils flare and clasped his hands tightly behind his back.

     “So, what?” McCoy sounded exasperated and on the edge of open belligerence. “As far as I can tell, nothing about what happened fits any definition of normalcy I’m familiar with. And you yourself are a hybrid with—.”

     “I am well aware of my genetics,” Spock cut in sharply, and he straightened, frowning at his own uncharacteristic display. Too much had been revealed already. Too much had been casually discussed, laid bare to outworlder speculation: this, his culture’s deep secret and his own profound shame. Emotion surged, contained only beneath sheer obstinacy, and McCoy must have seen something of it because his eyes widened and he took a rapid step backwards.

     “Okay,” he said quickly. “Okay, Spock.” He swallowed and licked his lips, continuing somewhat gently, “But you do understand that—.”

     “I shall report to sickbay at the midpoint of my shift,” Spock repeated curtly.

     McCoy nodded slowly, any animosity ominously gone. “I’ll see you then.”

     His tone was carefully flat but his feelings were undeniably transparent to the Vulcan’s helpless telepathy and Spock averted his own gaze as he walked stiffly away, escaping into the corridor, bitter indignity curdling his blood at the doctor’s obvious pity and in the knowledge of all the human had witnessed.

     Ingrained in his identity as a Vulcan, self-reliance was necessary for sound pursuit of logic. However, Spock’s own self-reliance had failed him and, worse, had almost been responsible for the death of his captain. Spock had stubbornly hesitated in the looming face of _pon farr_ , having believed from bitter experience with other hardships that he could figure his way out of it or strengthen himself against it. He had always been a survivor; had needed to be from earliest childhood. But his body, his mind, and his practiced abilities had been all systematically broken down. His decisions and choices and his very sense of self had been brutally abrogated by an inescapable biology that had no care for his unique strength. With uncertainty and fear newly stoked, Spock reached for the centering resonance of Jim’s mind yet again, sharply aware of his dependence on the bond and unable to suppress the terrible knowledge that he might, in his continued weakness, be responsible for failing his dearest friend once more.

 

~.~

 

     “McCoy cornered me after alpha shift today,” Jim commented, leaning back in his desk chair and crossing his legs, a cup of steaming coffee held loosely in his hands. The ambient lighting in the captain’s quarters was set low, and the computer screen cast a soft glow over the human’s features.

     Spock looked up from where he sat stiffly on the couch, his untouched dinner growing cold on the low table in front of him. “Indeed?”

     “Indeed,” Jim repeated, tilting his head. “I didn’t tell him about our bond.”

     The Vulcan lowered his eyes to the PADD balanced on his lap, watching the continuously scrolling data-stream; the effects of the fever had lowered his efficiency over the past week and he had been absorbed in necessary tasks through both alpha and beta shifts. “I also neglected to mention it.”

     Spock’s visit to sickbay had been brief; he had returned to the bridge after only fourteen point two minutes, having been given the doctor’s reluctant consent. Spock had not lingered to discuss his blood test, nor to indulge McCoy’s hovering concern. And he had most certainly not disclosed the existence of a mental link with his captain.

     Jim’s prolonged silence caught his attention, and Spock lifted his eyes again. The captain was watching him intently. “Should we? Tell him?”

     Spock sensed now-familiar tension begin along his shoulders. “At present, it will not impact our command performance.” His words were an evasion, and he could tell by the measured evaluation in Jim’s eyes that it had not been entirely successful. He swallowed, adding, “Such…things are not discussed, openly.”

     “Like _pon farr_.” Jim’s words were blunt, but his mind radiated sympathy, and understanding.

     Spock managed not to flinch. “Yes, Jim,” he replied softly.

     “I suppose we can wait,” the captain said slowly. “After all, I can’t even feel it unless you’re touching me, or we’re melded.” His brow furrowed as he abruptly changed the subject. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

     Spock blinked; the human ability to contend with rapid shifts into and out of deeply emotional topics was frankly astonishing. He glanced down at the plate of food and bit his lower lip; his appetite had yet to return, though he knew that his lingering exhaustion would not be banished without sufficient caloric intake.

     “Eat,” Jim ordered, shifting in his seat and taking a sip of coffee. “I know you don’t want to, but collapsing on the floor again is only going to drag Bones back into this.”

     “Logical.” Even Spock could hear the tired resignation in his own voice, and he placed the PADD aside, slowly taking a bite of food under his captain’s watchful gaze.

    Jim made a satisfied grunt and leaned back even further, reaching out to poke at his computer console. “We’ll reach Altair in the middle of alpha tomorrow; too late to make the main opening ceremony, but just in time for plenty of other unnecessary pageantry.” His expression turned sour and he rubbed his forehead. “Just what we need.”

     Spock took another small bite of food, ignoring the tastelessness of it. Jim looked over at him, his tone and expression gentling. “Do you feel up for it?”

     Spock placed his fork on his plate and dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “I am at your disposal, Captain.”

     “That’s not an answer.” Jim heaved a sigh and stood up, setting his coffee down and crossing over to stand in front of his friend, arms folded over his chest. “I need you to talk to me.” He slowly shook his head, speaking rapidly, “I can’t…shake the feeling that there’s still something fundamentally wrong, despite Bones’ muttering about all your readings returning to norms and whatever improvement I could sense when we melded last night.” He shrugged. “I know it hasn’t been very long, but—.”

     _“Bridge to Mr. Spock.”_

     The intercom call echoed in the room and Jim rolled his eyes, making an aborted motion toward his desk before he sharply checked himself, waving a silent invitation to his first officer.

     Spock was already moving, fighting a wave of dizziness as he stood, reaching Jim’s desk and pressing the comm. “Spock, here.”

_“Ensign Mai, sir. Priority recorded communication for you from Elder T’Pau of Vulcan, on the diplomatic channel.”_

     Spock heard Jim’s quiet profanity behind him, but he kept his own voice steady. “I shall take it here, Ensign.”

 _“Switching.”_ There was a pause. _“Message ready, sir.”_

     Spock hit the switch to kill the intercom, but his hand hesitated over the button to access the message feed. The dizziness had faded into an odd light-headed feeling, and what should have been a cascade of mental analysis was instead hollow reflection. Obedience had been instilled in him from birth, and the edge of rising defiance and anger within him at the mention of the Elder’s name was shocking. His hand, hovering over the panel, began to tremble.

     “Spock—,” Jim began carefully.

     “If I am correct, Jim, this will involve you as well.”

     “I just bet it does.” Spock heard his captain exhale, and then felt the warmth of the other man’s body as he approached. “When it rains, it pours. I suppose she figured out that neither of us are dead.”

     Spock did not respond to his friend’s sarcasm as T’Pau’s image appeared on the screen. The matriarch began without the traditional greeting, and spoke in Standard: a glaring indication that Jim’s assessment was, in fact, correct and that the elderly woman had presumed that both officers would be present. The message itself was straightforward:

     _“I have inferred the subterfuge of the human doctor with regard to your_ t’hy’la _. Despite the logic that might be found in such an action, tradition dictates that such a display by your selected companion deems you_ vre’kasht _. Spock, you have now twice chosen to turn away from us and there is no need for a third; may your path lead you to what you seek, for you shall not find it here.”_

     “Damn.” Jim’s low utterance penetrated the sudden fog that seemed to cloud Spock’s mind. “What the hell… ?”

     “There is…language describing the consequences of breaking the ancient script. As you observed during the ceremony, cowardice is immediately punishable. This, however—.” Spock paused, turning to regard his captain. “This is a judgment that is not solely based on what happened during the _kalifee_.”

     Jim was staring at the blank screen. “That word, _vre’kasht_ , means what I think it means?”

     “It does.” Outcast. Exile. Spock steeled himself, but instead of swelling anger he felt only some degree of emptiness and…relief. He did not bother to suppress it, feeling the shifting of his facial muscles with unaccustomed expression.

     His human friend, however, was seething. Hands clasped rigidly behind his back, lips pressed in a tight line, his static outward appearance hid fierce roiling anger that colored their mental link in reddish hues. Jim’s voice was clipped. “This is bullshit.”

     “On the contrary, Jim, I find it completely understandable.”

     “What?” Some of the stern mask dropped, and incredulity gleamed in hazel eyes.

     “T’Pau is correct in that my path has twice altered from cultural expectations, and I have been responsible for both diversions. The first time, I defied my father and joined Starfleet instead of enrolling at the VSA. My break with my homeworld was such that I did not have contact with my betrothed for eighteen years. That was my choice.”

     Jim exploded, “But what happened to you yesterday wasn’t your choice, dammit. T’Pring challenged; I agreed to fight; McCoy administered the neural paralyzer. You had nothing to do with—.”

     “My responsibility and culpability cannot be dismissed. I did not inform you of the _pon farr_ until it was almost too late. I extended an invitation for you and the doctor to join me at the _koon-ut-kalifee_ without adequately explaining the circumstances, or the dangers. I dared to argue with T’Pau against your participation.” Spock lowered his eyes. “And upon your presumed demise I illogically released T’Pring and returned to the ship even though, at the time, I knew it to mean the inevitable and complete exposure of Vulcan’s deepest secret.”

     Jim stammered, “Spock, you—.”

     “I chose, at the last, to hold my duty to this ship, and to you, over my duty to my homeworld.”

     “Spock—.” Jim’s voice broke over his name, the human’s own anger falling away.

     The Vulcan interrupted again, quickly, driven to continue speaking, demanding his friend’s judgment. “You are correct, Jim, that there is danger remaining, and while I accept it for myself, I…fear for you. I do not know what the future holds with regard to a recurrence of the fever, but I was not speaking colorfully when I said that you are a sanctuary for me. Your mind…stabilizes mine through the link we share; I…I am in need of you. This is the reason for the physical improvement that is so confounding to the doctor. I understand that this is a burden and unwanted—.”

     “It’s wanted!” Jim asserted immediately, and overly loudly. He blinked, and his voice grew serious, his hands relaxing at his sides. “And I wasn’t merely being coy when I said that it makes sense that we’re _this_ , too. My Vulcan friend, I’m glad that you need me.” He improbably chuckled. “It makes up for how much I seem to need you.”

     Spock closed his eyes, distinctly overwhelmed, deeply tired, and sensing something like hysteria welling within him in the aftermath of his impromptu confession and Jim’s impossible continued acceptance.

     “Spock.” Jim’s voice was soft and unbearably close. “You found solace in my mind last night. Take it again.”

     Spock bit his lower lip, his hands clenching into fists, considering that Jim must not fully understand if he still offered this in spite of all the uncertainty. Would the intensity fade with time, or only grow stronger? Would they be forced into physical consummation after all? Would their situation make their continued functioning as a command team impossible? Questions upon questions, and now no shore remaining upon which to return: his planet was closed to him, his path wrought with unknowns, his logic assailed and his control a far thing. He felt himself sway and then he felt cool, human fingers against his face. A gentle caress, as he himself had offered the night previous, but unstudied, drifting over meld points, and he shivered and opened his eyes as Jim’s fingers slipped into his hair.

     The human’s expression was touched by lingering worry but displayed rare, vulnerable openness.

     “We’ll go slow,” he said softly. “We’ll figure it out. We’re alive and we’re together, and nothing’s stood long against us thus far.”

     “Arrogance,” Spock pronounced, unwilling to admit to anything so optimistic.

     “Experience,” Jim countered firmly, his lips quirking in a smile. He lowered his hand to grasp Spock’s wrist, tugging slightly. “Now, let’s go sit on the couch before we end up on the damn floor again.”

     The Vulcan allowed himself to be led, and as Jim assuredly tilted his chin into Spock’s touch, he allowed the human’s dynamic mind to lead him into the meld as well. Here, within this joining, confidence seemed justified and love an easy and uncomplicated thing. Here, there was no shame and no censure. Here, there was hope, and home.

 

 


	3. Calibration

Chapter Three: Calibration

 

     A simulated breeze ran chill through the expansive ballroom, buffeting the clamor of a hundred languages spoken by a thousand people. The thick scent of flowers, meant to mimic the springtime bloom on Altair VI, was nearly overpowering to Vulcan senses; the lights too bright, and the emotional pressures unavoidably acute after over four hours of speeches and pageantry.

      Spock sat silently at his assigned place at the end of one of the large, laden tables, an untouched plate of food in front of him and his unrelenting concentration focused on maintaining his outward impassivity. Dizziness came and went, and his muscles were painfully stiff with cold and exhaustion, his over-stimulated telepathy resulting in a vaguely nauseous sensation that was decidedly unpleasant.

     Though the diversion to Vulcan had cost them attendance at the actual inauguration, Jim’s prediction of having plenty of other opportunities for participation in the pomp and circumstance surrounding the new president was accurate. The captain himself sat at the head table, meters away, and despite Spock’s attempts to appear unaffected, the Vulcan could not prevent his own eyes from following Jim’s expression, nor his ears from picking out the human’s gentle tenor amidst the din. Jim was watching him, too, the sense of his mind both strained and streamlined, and it was all Spock could do to keep from reaching further. It would be too easy to fall completely into the bond and to lose his own veneer of control; their convolution was held too deeply and his physical state was far too depleted. He hovered on the edge, balanced by necessary duty and stubborn dignity. Especially with what had come before, duty, for both of them, must prevail.

     “Jim got a message from Komack right before we beamed down.” The exaggerated drawl from his immediate left hinted at overindulgence from the rich wine provided for the occasion. Though nominally appreciative of McCoy’s presence instead of someone unknown, Spock was only too aware of the fact that the doctor had noticed the distraction evident between the command team.

     McCoy continued quietly, “I didn’t hear it, but Jim looked pretty angry.”

     Spock looked at the other table to meet somber hazel eyes. Jim blinked, his expression softening minutely before he glanced away again to speak to the new president’s chief aide. The woman was laughing loudly; the entire hall seeming to be devolving into informal revelry as the planet’s night stretched.

     “He did not mention it.”

     McCoy took a sip of wine. “He wouldn’t, I’m sure, and especially not to you. But I think we can both imagine what that bastard had to say.”

     “This is not the place,” Spock said firmly, “for such a discussion.”

     McCoy raised his eyebrows and glanced around pointedly. The other people at the table were hardly paying attention to them; the female member of the diplomatic corps seated on the other side of the doctor was obviously inebriated, speaking animatedly to the smitten first officer of the _Farragut_. On the opposite side of the table, two delegates were laughing uproariously at something a third had just said.

     “He’s persistent,” McCoy commented, swirling the liquid in his glass, evidently referring to the admiral. “I’m worried—.” He broke off. “Jim’s just as tight-lipped as you are, now. A patient is more than their readings, and I’ve never seen a truer example of that than what we just went through.”

     “I reiterate that this is not the place for—.”

     “Well, it seems like it’s either here or in random hallways on the ship!” McCoy interrupted, whispering harshly. “I have to chase both of you down for everything these days; two grown men who should know better.” He leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at Jim, who was again watching his first officer.

     He continued dryly, “You should eat something, Spock. If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for my peace of mind, at least.”

     “I am not responsible for your emotional state, Doctor,” Spock responded tightly.

     McCoy grunted, taking another sip of his wine. “Well, I can understand that, I suppose.” He waved a hand loosely. “Damn if you’re not as stubborn as they come.”

     Spock lowered his eyes, irritation burning along the edges of his mind at the doctor’s insistence on pursuing this subject, so representative of the human need for cathartic discussion and subsequent emotional display. The concept was so different from the intense privacy and individual reconciliation involved with Vulcan mental interaction; such things were never _spoken_ of. Shame swelled yet again as Spock realized that McCoy probably did not trust him with regard to Jim. Such would be fitting, unfortunately, given the grim actions taken during the _kalifee_.

     McCoy frowned and shifted in his seat, and Spock could sense the doctor’s agitation increasing as the human lowered his voice even further. “I’m worried, Spock, as I said before, but I’m angry, too. With Komack and, lord help me, with you, too. I didn’t want Jim to do it, you know: divert the ship; agree to the fight; hell, _continue_ the fight. I knew he would lose his command, and then I thought he would lose his life. I blamed you.”

     His hand was uncharacteristically unsteady on the wineglass and his voice was unsteady as well, barely audible even to Vulcan hearing. “I told Jim that he would have to kill you. Even when I was giving him that neural paralyzer, I thought I was having to make a choice.”

     “Your actions were quite logical,” Spock replied flatly.

     “Dammit!” McCoy hissed. “I didn’t want that! I don’t want that, now: making a…a _calculation_ on life and death without knowing the full story. Having to _guess_ , and unable to protect you from yourself and unable to protect Jim from himself. I felt completely helpless and I’m beginning to feel that way again. Will you _please_ ,” he finally slammed his glass on the table, “eat something?”

     It was too much, as others at the table now turned to look at them and Spock stood up abruptly. “You will excuse me, Doctor.” He stumbled, dizziness swelling as he stepped away from the table, recovering and walking stiffly toward the main doors to the ballroom. He forced himself, with dwindling strength, to maintain a measured pace and an inscrutable countenance, and continued walking even as the doors slid shut and he sensed Jim’s almost overwhelming concern flood their mental connection.

     The Vulcan expected the soft sound of the doors opening again behind him, the ambient noise from the ballroom swelling and then fading again before quick, purposeful steps narrowed the distance between them. Spock swayed slightly, his mind helplessly reaching for the bond as his _t’hy’la_ approached.

     “Ma’am?” Jim’s tone instantly commanded the attention of a nearby security guard.

     “Yes, Captain?” She came to attention.

     He spoke with measured authority, his communicator in his hand, “My first officer and I need to make a secure call to our ship; is there a private room that we could use?”

     “Of course, sir.” She gestured to a door several meters down the corridor. “That’s a secondary conference room usually used by diplomatic support staff; it’s small, but secure. You won’t be disturbed.”

     “Thank you.” Jim gestured Spock in the direction of the proffered room and the Vulcan kept his own eyes forward as they passed the young guard.

     The lighting inside was low, and as the door smoothly shut behind them the complete silence was both jarring and refreshing to Spock’s over-sensitized nerves. Jim turned immediately, replacing his communicator on his belt before his hands came up to gently grip the Vulcan’s shoulders, his eyes questioning.

     Spock bowed his head. “I apologize, Captain.”

     The human shook his head sharply. “Never mind that. Are you alright?” He frowned. “No, of course you’re not.” His grip tightened before he let go, one hand running over his own mouth and chin. “I want you to go back to the ship.”

     “My presence is required—,” Spock began.

     “No, _my_ presence is required,” Jim interrupted. “Yours is,” he waved a hand, “needed on the ship for some…immediate reason.”

     Spock lowered his eyes, deeply uncomfortable. The idea of returning to the ship for personal reasons went against everything that he was, and yet he could not avoid an impulse of relief. Shame filled him, and he winced with the force and intensity of it. To do this would be to admit…defeat? Weakness? Why was he fighting so hard? Exhaustion surged again and he closed his eyes briefly before raising his chin. To follow the captain’s directive was logical at this time. Fortitude was one thing, but ego was another.

     “Yes, Captain.”

     Spock’s short reply was unaffected, but something of his internal conflict was evident in his expression because Jim’s eyes widened and he reached out again, his hand finding Spock’s with a grip that was both steady and steadying. “Spock,” he said softly, “honestly, you don’t need to be here right now; at least for tonight. Things are winding down—.” He broke off, sighing. “Or winding up, depending on how you look at it.” He tilted his head. “I can see that you’re struggling, and, given more time, others will see it, too. I can’t _technically_ order you to go back, but,” he shrugged, “I’m effectively ordering you to go back. You can pick up tomorrow, no harm done.”

     Spock watched their hands together, finding himself lost in the touch, in the desperately needed strength and comfort of it. He could sense dawning realization in his friend, and glanced up to see Jim’s careful smile.

     “This is helping? Before, it seemed to be too much—.”

     “It is helping,” Spock broke in.

     Jim’s smile widened and he shifted his hand so that their palms were pressed together. The enhanced mental resonance was both forceful and soothing, and Spock closed his eyes briefly, letting his first two fingers instinctively pair and gently move over his _t’hy’la_ ’s skin, over the back of his hand and across his palm. Jim held still, his expression growing serious, and whispers of awe slid across their bond.

     “I…I can feel that. I can feel you, somehow, when you do that. That’s…amazing.” He glanced up and then back down to their hands, mirroring Spock’s movements, and as their paired fingers finally pressed together, he looked up again, his eyes shining.

     “It is…intimate, isn’t it? This? A gesture of affection?”

     “It is somewhat more than that,” Spock said softly. The simple touch was powerful, passionate even, and he felt himself begin to fall… .

     “I see.” Jim’s smile had returned, and his eyes followed Spock’s hand as the Vulcan deliberately separated their fingers, the growing intensity retreating into pleasant contentment that lingered between them. “You have me, Spock,” he tapped a finger on his temple, “right here.” He blinked, his eyebrows lifting. “I know that fulfilling one’s duty is fundamentally Vulcan, but guilt isn’t logical and neither is self-immolation. _Kaiidth_ , as you say. Let me know what you need.” He sniffed self-deprecatingly. “Another non-order for you.”

     “Yes, Jim.”

     “Good.” Jim nodded once, his posture shifting from its pilant lines into command formality. “Get back to the ship and I’ll make your apologies. I’ll see you tomorrow for the morning sessions.” He didn’t move yet, however, his eyes fixed on the Vulcan’s. He took a breath, his hand flexing at his side, and then he reached forward, placing his open palm on Spock’s chest. His hand was warm, his gaze gentle and unguarded. “My friend, I need you, too,” he said softly. “Very much. Please don’t ever forget that.”

     Spock exhaled, his lips curving slightly as another wave of vivid and welcomed human affection washed into his mind. Jim smiled and then sobered, and Spock could both see and sense the complete return to official demeanor as the captain removed his hand and turned to leave.

     The Vulcan watched the doors shut behind him, considering that emotion could hurt, but also could it heal: such a multi-faceted thing, and for him, such an unknown. It was the way of his people to suppress emotion: to view it as either shamefully evident or admirably controlled but to largely ignore the complexity between. It occurred to him that it was not logical to dismiss something without fully comprehending it. From the time of Surak, emotion had been considered dangerous, and for good reason, but Spock considered, as he lifted his communicator to signal for transport, that something significant had been lost in that rigid philosophy, the error compounded by time, cultural stringency and the accepted ostracism of native dissenters. Pronouncements of IDIC aside, a society, however much evolved, was not well served by resisting dynamic change.

     Spock lifted an eyebrow, aware that his own status as _vre’kasht_ was a significant reason for his present musings. Discontent shimmered within him, fading into the gray cast of tiredness, and from that sparked an unexpected notion. _Freedom_. The collective consciousness of Vulcan would never leave him, imbued in his telepathic gift, but its expectations were no longer applicable.

     The specter of Komack’s previous offer of the captaincy of the _Intrepid_ rose within his mind. He had resisted the promotion for any number of logical reasons, including his loyalty to his present captain and his preference for scientific duties, but there had always been a background of very personal opposition. He stared at the communicator in his hand, realizing that his identity had always been of Vulcan, either deriving from it or resisting against it. Now, he was adrift, drawn to a bond with a human, entering a place where rules had yet to be defined. He was an explorer, though, inherently, and could not deny the small excitement that curled within him, quietly erasing some of the shame.

 

~.~

 

     Spock’s quarters on the _Enterprise_ were adequately heated and the lighting low, and he removed his dress tunic carefully, exchanging it for a plain, black robe and kneeling in front of his _asenoi_. He would attempt the rudimentary mind disciplines again, if only to prepare for his next visit to the planet’s surface: immersive meditation remained quite out of reach. He began a preparatory breathing exercise, attempting to calm his thoughts, unable to banish the sense-memory of Jim’s fingers touching his own in the traditional embrace; of Jim’s hand, pressed against his chest in a far more human way; of Jim’s mind, similarly warm and open. The sensations were at fundamental odds with the traditional, sterile approach to the mind rules and, as time stretched, Spock realized that more he attempted to force his emotional responses away, the stronger they became, pulling his mind always to the bond.

     He opened his eyes, looking down at his hands. Though they did not shake, he could recall clearly how it felt to have Jim hold them. Skin against skin, palms pressed, fingers intertwined: it was not a great leap to imagine more, and his body stiffened as heat rolled through his mind, chased by cold fear. The soft beep from his computer was nearly a relief and Spock rose too quickly, his head swimming briefly before he steadied himself with a hand against the nearby bulkhead.

     A single recorded message was flagged for immediate review amidst nearly a hundred threads dealing with normal ship’s business, and Spock felt tension creep again along his shoulders as he recognized the message’s origination pattern. He selected to view, and as the screen flickered, he noted again the absence of his regular pattern of efficient and unemotional mental analysis. Instead, he sat with damaged shields and nothing _but_ feeling, the composure he needed coming not from practiced disciplines but from the press of his folded hands, the memory of his friend’s warmth, and the perception of a human mind.

     The image of his mother’s face slowly appeared. She seemed calm, though her eyes betrayed distress, and she looked into the screen for several seconds before speaking.

     _“Spock. I was recently informed of your… ,”_ her lips tightened, _“_ status _by your father. T’Pau told him nothing of the circumstances, except that the_ kalifee _was involved and that your betrothal bond was severed.”_ She visibly fought for equanimity. _“But that you are, after all that, alive.”_ She lifted her chin. _“I will not speculate as to the complications involved; it is enough that you are alive, though I fear that you are not well.”_ Her eyes hardened. _“It makes no difference to me what the Elder chooses to call you, or your position in the clan. You are my son. Your father… .”_ She closed her eyes briefly. _“Your father and I disagree strongly on this matter, but I must tell you that the circumstances here are also…complicated. If you are able, please contact me. I…regret that our link is not such that I can assure myself of your well-being.”_ She hesitated before concluding softly, _“I love you.”_

     The message terminated abruptly, and Spock released one of his hands to reach for his temple. _Our link._ She meant the parental bond they shared, of course; one that was facilitated _in utero_ by a healer and maintained, he was told, by his own unprecedented abilities. He could sense it during deepest meditation, but at other times, even now, it was veiled to him. He had never asked his mother of her perception of her own marriage bond, and the thought brought with it a sense of regret. How would he know if what he shared with Jim fell within the boundaries of normalcy? How would he know if Jim might, someday, be able to perceive it himself? He blinked, considering his mother’s other words and her barely contained anger. He swallowed, raising his hands to the touch screen to key in a response.

     The screen registered the computer’s readiness, and Spock straightened in his seat, ensuring that his expression fell along impassive lines.

     “Mother. There is no need for concern on my behalf. T’Pau’s pronouncement was quite logical, given the circumstances. I have released T’Pring, and I assure you logic dictated that action as well.” He paused, knowing that she would hold his words in confidence and that further reassurance would be required. “As for future…complications, I can only say that an appropriate arrangement has been met. I bid you farewell.”

     He closed the channel cursorily and keyed in the message parameters, marking it as priority-secure. There was another beep, and the screen reverted to his other notifications. Spock’s eyes travelled over the subject lines, defensively willing his concentration back to practical matters.

     Numbers, mathematics, hypotheses and lines of evidence; efficiency reports and personnel records; pending research proposals and clearance protocols for alien technology and newly discovered natural phenomena: the Vulcan worked automatically, knowing that his immersive focus was an attempt to push aside overwhelming emotional issues and the utter fatigue that now wracked his body. He could not find his center; he could not find peace, and yet he could not allow himself to _sleep_. He stopped suddenly, hands hovering over his screens, a multiphysics model rotating slowly on the console in front of him. He had lost his controls; disciplines that had dictated the movement and pattern of his life had fallen away and been replaced by this…instability. Inescapable emotional forces lurked within him and if he allowed his guard to fall further, he might risk the one man that he cherished. _Cherished_.

     He closed his eyes, letting his hands fall to his lap. Love was a human convention; Vulcans cherished: they held; they protected; they came to a logical arrangement with regards to a lifebond. A bark of noise startled him and he suddenly realized it had come from him. A laugh? A sob? He moved haltingly, not realizing he was reaching for his _ka’athyra_ until it was in his hands and he was sitting again in his desk chair, the instrument cradled in his lap, and then he began to play.

     Jarring chords reflected his anger; cascading dissonance carried away his fear. The sharp bite of the strings against his fingertips introduced a welcome pain: one that he could control, one that was understandable. Nervous energy slowly ebbed, carried away in music that became gradually softer and more mellifluous. Emotional expression couched within the mathematically predictable resonance of notes and phrases became gradually manageable, and Spock identified the parallels here, in music, between the fundamental structure of his own upbringing and the bright virtuosity that he was drawn to in Jim.

     The door to his quarters opened without his acknowledgement, but Spock continued to play, recognizing the doctor’s psi-signature. The human walked forward to stand motionless next to the bulkhead, listening, until the final notes trailed away and Spock lifted his head.

     “That…was beautiful, Spock.” McCoy looked drawn and pale in his dress uniform.

     “Doctor.” Spock knew his tone was relaxed, almost lazy, and it seemed to disconcert the human.

     “I’m sorry I used my override—I tried the intercom, but you didn’t answer.”

     The Vulcan exhaled, gathering himself. “I understand.”

     McCoy’s jaw shifted. “I wanted to apologize for what happened at dinner tonight. I was way out of line, and I’m sorry.” He licked his lips. “Want to hear my excuse or do you just want to chalk it up to human eccentricity?”

     Spock adjusted his instrument and motioned to the chair across the desk. “Please sit.”

     “Thanks.” McCoy sat down carefully, crossing his legs. “Look, I’m concerned about this whole situation, obviously. I’m worried about the larger implications of what happened.” He leaned forward. “It’s my job to make sure that you and the captain are well, physically and psychologically, but, on a more personal level, I want to help, as a friend.”

     “You have done so by saving Jim’s life,” Spock said quietly. “You are his friend.”

     “And yours, too, it seems.” McCoy pointed at him almost accusingly. “You said it yourself, before we beamed down to Vulcan.”

     “I did.” Spock lowered his eyes briefly, remembering that he had named the doctor as such before the _koon-ut-kalifee_ : an impromptu, if fateful pronouncement. He did not know, even now, if he was prepared to fully acknowledge it.

     McCoy shook his head suddenly and then looked away, shifting uncomfortably and appearing to be thinking about something. “It’s that line between pragmatism and compassion that’s hardest to walk; especially when you consider the positions you both hold.” Blue eyes moved back to regard him, and Spock could sense tentative uncertainty. “Spock, you and Jim—.” The doctor trailed off, and frowned. “The two of you—.” He swallowed and tried again, “Is there anything I should know?”

     “Our functionality as a command team is unaltered.” Despite the doctor’s overtures, Spock did not wish to discuss his relationship with the captain.

     The doctor exhaled sharply and rolled his eyes. “Of course. I might’ve guessed.” He stood up abruptly. “I’m going to consider this a step forward, in any case. And you got my apology.” He made a half-hearted wave. “Jim said you’d be beaming down for the morning sessions?”

     “Affirmative.”

     “Great.” McCoy hesitated in front of the door. “Spock, in the middle of that fiasco with Deneva, you asked Jim to let you help. And I remember wondering at the time what the hell you could possibly do, with that amount of pain. You surprised me. Maybe…maybe I’ll surprise you.” He shrugged. “Something to think about, anyway. You know where to find me.”

     The door closed behind him, leaving Spock alone with his thoughts. Thoughts of his mother, and of the soothing alignment found within his _t’hy’la_ ’s mind. Thoughts of the subtle, yet significant emotional ambiance provided by humans: something that he would normally have suppressed or simply dismissed. Thoughts of the many different definitions of friendship: a concept that seldom came easily, despite the overt expressionism that humans frequently displayed.

     McCoy was attempting to support him, albeit in a particularly human way, and though Spock could make allowances for that, it was almost impossible to accept the doctor’s offer considering the turmoil that their interactions introduced. It was most fascinating that Jim’s emotional dynamism, on the other hand, seemed to temper the abnormalities remaining from the fever and had caused not upheaval, but some kind of fundamental re-arrangement. Spock gently laid his instrument on his desk, folding his hands, contemplating the idea of change…of evolution. And what might the consequences be if that _re-arrangement_ was not unique to his own mind, but shared by his captain as well.

 

 


	4. Closer

Chapter Four: Closer

 

     The bright lights and ambient noise of the bridge were no longer quite as harsh to Spock’s senses, and his mental shields, while largely recovered, were not held quite as tightly as they once had been, allowing the subtle awareness of his human shipmates to provide an emotional background that colored his thoughts and instilled an impression of wellness. A tentative balance had been struck in the twelve days since departing Altair VI; a balance guided by his increasingly sensitive discernment of the bright connection to Jim’s mind through their regular melded contact.

     It was delicate: this equilibrium between openness and discretion, between reaching and holding back. Shame and anger had largely fallen away, replaced by more complex shades of emotion that were always touched by longing and always directly attuned to Jim. The bond was always perceptible to the Vulcan, even when his own mind was carefully restrained behind necessary mental barriers, and he found himself experiencing a new physical dimension that was disturbingly reminiscent of the flames of _pon farr_ yet not as acute. Control was a tenuous thing, in the face of desire, and while what they shared was becoming stronger and deeper, stubborn fear always lurked for what might ultimately be demanded by resurgent primal urges. To that end, Spock had avoided physical contact with his friend beyond the meld, concentrating on regaining his mastery of mental disciplines.

     At present, Spock was immersed in his duties and in his awareness of Jim’s close proximity, allowing the background psionic murmur of human minds to fill the remaining tender places where control had yet to fully return.

     A blinking light on his panels indicated sensor array readiness and Spock glanced forward to the helm. “Navigator, come about to thirty-two mark seven, slow to one-half.”

     “Aye, Commander,” the young ensign replied promptly. “Adjusting course and decelerating.”

     Spock pressed a series of keys and swiveled his chair to face his captain. “Survey six ready, sir. Estimated duration forty-nine point five minutes.”

     Jim, seated in the command chair, took a sip of coffee and nodded. “Carry on, Mr. Spock.”

     “Aye.” Spock looked at Uhura. “Lieutenant, if you would?”

     She smiled at him and keyed in the intercom. “All hands, this is the bridge. Scanning survey to commence on my mark, anticipated duration forty-nine point five minutes. All intraship communication to occur on designated channels only; all energy expenditure must conform to code-black status.”

     She looked back at Spock and he nodded, reaching back to his panel to begin the scanning program. “Initiating survey.”

     “Mark,” Uhura said crisply and leaned back in her seat, closing the channel, her dark eyes still on the Vulcan and a smile still on her lips.

     Spock allowed his own gaze to soften in her direction before turning back to his screens. They had begun to practice together again, after dinner, often when Jim was at the gym or detained by additional responsibilities. Her fluency on the _ka’athyra_ was remarkable, and Spock found her presence to be a welcome source of calm as his ability to shield had slowly improved. She had kept conversation to a minimum, approximating Vulcan restraint; avoiding any displays of curiosity regarding his erstwhile wife or his recent treatment of Chapel. She represented yet another definition of friendship and Spock considered that such attachments might be the human equivalent of Vulcan familial bonds: not distracting but bolstering, none of precisely equal weight but each holding its own importance.

     The slide of the turbolift door interrupted his musings, and Spock did not need to turn in order to identify the quick steps of McCoy himself, crossing predictably to stand next to the command chair. The doctor recently had seemed to shift his attention from Spock to the captain, and Spock could only speculate whether the subtle tension exhibited by his _t’hy’la_ of late was the cause or the consequence.

     “How’s it goin’, Jim?” McCoy drawled.

     “Bones.” Jim sounded slightly irritated, projecting an immediate sense of defensiveness.  Spock began to check the survey results, but couldn’t keep part of his focus away from the hushed conference behind him.

     “Did you get a chance to think about what we discussed the other day?” McCoy’s murmur would have been inaudible to human ears, but Spock was not human. He heard Jim sigh and shift in his seat.

     “Not now, Bones.”

     McCoy hissed, “Well, you won’t condescend to stop by so I’m coming to you. I—.”

     “Doctor, that’s enough.” Jim’s tone was louder and Spock saw Uhura’s head come up. She didn’t turn around, but he noticed her lips press together as she cast him a sideways glance filled with some unknown significance. He raised an eyebrow, looking back at his scanners, feeling something spark brightly within his own mind. Concern? Jealousy? Protectiveness? He didn’t approve of the doctor’s open insubordination in any case, and he stood, turning to step over to Jim’s other side, sensing the captain’s growing anger ease with his presence and seeing Jim’s almost relieved smile as the human leaned toward his first officer.

     “Spock. Everything look good so far?” The captain was sitting tightly, his legs crossed and a PADD on his lap.

     “I would not classify it as either good or bad, sir. What is, is.” Spock cautioned a glance at the doctor.

     McCoy rolled his eyes, but Jim’s smile widened. “Well, tell me ‘what is’, then.”

     Spock clasped his hands behind his back, lifting his chin. He could sense that Jim was stalling to avoid any further queries by the doctor. “As you are aware, this area of space is characterized by an anomalous chemical signature. Our ongoing scans are directed toward investigating this anomaly and plotting a spatial pattern. Previous surveys suggest—.”

     Spock continued with a rigorous and lengthy description of the tuning parameters on the array and Jim nodded, his mind radiating amusement and satisfaction. Spock felt a bloom of contentment in his own mind at his captain’s undivided attention, Jim’s hazel eyes occasionally drifting down to Spock’s mouth before rising to meet his gaze again.

     Spock straightened as he noticed McCoy’s growing irritation, finishing, “This scan will be complete in twenty-nine point three minutes, Captain.”

     “Fine, fine. And then that’ll be it for this shift?”

     “Yes, sir; aside from processing. With the conclusion of this scan, the data will be automatically correlated and then introduced into a coupled chemophysical model that my department has been developing collaboratively. Preliminary converged solutions should be ready for interpretation in approximately twelve hours, and parameters will be adjusted accordingly for forthcoming surveys.”

     Jim hummed and then looked up at Spock again, his features softening. “Join me for dinner?”

     Spock blinked; his appetite was still suffering. He recognized a conspiratorial glint in his friend’s eye, however, and decided that Jim either wished to continue to avoid the doctor or he wanted to ensure that Spock himself ate something. In either case, the Vulcan found himself wanting his friend’s company, and the uncomfortable sensation of possessiveness had not completely gone. He realized he had taken too long in replying, seeing McCoy’s eyes narrowing as the doctor leaned forward.

     “Yes, sir,” Spock agreed quickly. “That will be acceptable.”

     Jim hadn’t seemed to notice his lapse, smiling again as he replied, “Great. We can discuss the correlation algorithm; I’ve had a few ideas after sitting here all shift.” He indicated the PADD on his lap before draining his coffee. McCoy rocked on his toes next to him, obviously annoyed.

     “You can come, too, Bones,” Jim added, his tone oddly solicitous.

     McCoy grunted, his eyes still on Spock. “No, thanks; I can take a hint.” He shook his head, letting out a resigned huff. “Stop by sometime, Jim. I’d hate to have to make it an order.”

     “Sure, Bones.” Jim’s eyes followed the doctor as he turned and stalked away, and Spock waited a brief period before turning back to his station, the agitation that had simmered along his veins now largely relieved.

     The scans were proceeding as scheduled; data already available, and Spock marked the output to be copied to his section heads. As he worked, he could hear Jim’s voice as the captain conversed with Uhura and then with his yeoman, but Spock forced himself, this time, to disengage with their actual exchanges. His emotional reaction in response to the interaction between the captain and the doctor had been disturbing and unexpected.

     Relying on Jim’s mind for stability was evidently having a significant effect on his control, and Spock resolved to address this dependence once again during his meditation that night. As he finally closed out the scan and nodded to Uhura to send a message informing the crew, he considered if Jim himself was experiencing side effects due to their nascent bond. Perhaps that was the doctor’s basis for concern; Spock understood his friend well enough to know that Jim would deliberately downplay any personal difficulties.

     Behind him, Jim shifted in his chair. “Mr. Spock?”

     Spock turned. “Yes, Captain?”

     “We ready to move on?”

     “Yes, sir.” Spock addressed Ensign Rao in the navigator’s seat, “Ensign, set course as per previous instructions.”

     “Aye, Commander.” Rao paused, punching in commands to her console before looking over her shoulder at the captain. “Estimated transit time to our next survey location at warp four is twenty point six hours, sir.”

     “Acknowledged. Warp four, Mr. Sulu. We’ll pick up again tomorrow.” Almost on-cue, the turbolift doors slid open and the relief crew began to trickle in. Jim clapped his hands together and gestured to Lieutenant Commander Swarya. “Just in time. You have the conn, Commander.”

     Swarya smiled and nodded and Jim stepped down from the chair with some alacrity, holding his PADD and gesturing to his first officer. “Spock?”

     “Yes, sir.”

     Spock followed his captain into the turbolift ahead of the others, and it was only when the doors slid shut, sequestering the two of them, that he allowed some of the rigidity in his shoulders to dissipate. He closed his eyes briefly, hearing Jim’s command to the lift as if from far away, and then opened them again as they began to move, seeing his friend’s hazel eyes studying him.

     “We’re going to my quarters, by the way,” Jim said softly. “I had my yeoman send over some food.”

     Spock inclined his head. “Very well.” That was expected; he had not ventured to the mess hall in weeks.

     Jim was still watching him. “I know there hasn’t been much time since Altair, but,” he tilted his head, “you’re not—.” He cut his own words off, twisting his lips slightly as the lift slowed and the doors opened smoothly to Deck Five.

     Spock followed Jim down the corridor and into the captain’s quarters where, indeed, two covered trays languished on the table in front of Jim’s couch. Spock paused just inside the door, hearing it slide shut behind him and the servo-locks fastening. Jim had walked a few paces forward to place the PADD on the desk and turned around, his hands clasped behind his back.

     “You’re not—,” he began again slowly.

     This time, Spock interrupted him, “I am not as I was.”

     Jim frowned. “I didn’t mean it like that. It just seems like you’re pulling away—.” He winced and licked his lips. “Bones said that your physiological readings were back to within norms, but,” his jaw muscles tightened, “I can almost feel the restlessness from you.” He paused. “And other things.”

     “You are correct,” Spock replied, mimicking his friend’s formal stance. “My mind and my emotions are not yet subject to usual discipline.”

     Jim peered at him. “Is it because of me? Because of our bond?”

     Spock could not prevaricate. “Yes.”

     “Damn.” Jim ‘s brow furrowed. “Damn. I knew it.”

     “Jim, as we appear to be on the subject, I must inquire as to Doctor McCoy’s particular concern.”

     The captain sniffed, relaxing his tight posture as he pulled out his desk chair, sinking into it and rubbing a hand across his forehead. “Bones found some odd activity in my latest brain scan.” He shrugged. “You know, following up from the comprehensive physical he threw at me immediately after Vulcan. It’s not anything threatening, but it’s in areas associated with latent telepathy so he’s on the warpath.”

     Spock lifted an eyebrow. “I do not underst—.”

     “He came right out and asked if we’d melded after we got back from Vulcan.”

     Spock remained silent, and Jim shrugged again. “I said we had, and he’s, predictably, worried.” Hazel eyes grew hard. “I still haven’t mentioned the bond.”

     Spock tilted his head. “Jim, perhaps it would be wise if—.”

     “No.” Jim said sharply, abruptly standing. “I don’t want this to be…public. Between Bones and Komack—.” He trailed off and then pointed at his first officer, speaking firmly, “Tell me about what’s going on with you. You looked like you wanted to pummel Bones on the bridge today. I mean, _I_ wanted to—.” He hesitated and then took a halting step forward. “Is it me, then? Is it my mind?”

     There was a building anxious energy between them and Spock blinked at his friend weakly, his breath catching in his throat. “It is not…your mind, Jim, but your emotional range and intensity.”

     Jim plunged on, “I’m hurting you? This is hurting you? Is that why you won’t let me touch you?”

     “Jim—.”

     “Spock, we talked about this. You need to tell me if—.”

     “You are not hurting me,” Spock burst out, hearing overt emotion in his voice. His hands had dropped to his sides, and he felt them tremble. Jim was waiting, and though his face was nearly impassive, Spock could sense a shiver of panic in his friend’s mind, and the longing was there, too.

     The Vulcan tried again, “You are not hurting me; quite the contrary, in fact.” He blinked, speaking quickly and without his usual deliberation. “However, I find that your mind is…I find…I experience strong emotion in direct response to you, and I must contend with the increased sensitivity between us.”

     Jim took an involuntary step back, his face pale. “You need me to give you more distance?”

     “No!” Spock stepped forward, the word coming out louder than he had intended. He shook his head. “No, Jim.”

     The panic faded from the captain’s thoughts, but his expression had settled into grim lines. “Maybe we should tell Bones, if both of us are being affected like this.”

     Spock took another step forward. “No, I also wish for discretion at this time.” He clasped his hands together in front of him to stem their trembling, his eyes dropping to the floor. “There is another aspect, which I am reluctant to discuss, and would be loath to introduce to the doctor.” He paused, but Jim did not comment. The human’s gaze was, however, shockingly intense, and something like anticipation hovered within his mind.

     Spock bit his lower lip, his fingers tightening. “My reaction to you, and to the doctor’s presence on the bridge today, has another context. I admit to a degree of illogical possessiveness and even jealousy in regard to you that implies a…a physical need that is,” he swallowed, and his words tumbled out into the charged atmosphere, “suggestive of an intimate desire for your person.”

     He heard Jim’s exhale. “I thought so. I was worried that I was imagining it.”

     Spock continued to stare at the floor. “My reaction is unacceptable.”

     “But, is it really?” Jim’s tone held an odd note. “It’s logical, I should think; the physical need is logical, given what happened on Vulcan, and after. And I am your bondmate.”

     Spock looked up sharply, sensing hidden excitement in his friend’s mind and seeing obvious hope in his expression. “Jim—.”

     “I’m not?” The captain had shifted his stance and the energy in the room felt different. “I feel like I am.” He paused, and there was new heat suffusing their bond. “I want to be.”

     “You are.” Spock couldn’t help the admission. “You are, and I have failed you.”

     “How?” Jim asked fervently.

     Spock lowered his eyes again, stepping away and sitting on the couch, enforcing necessary space between them. He recognized his friend’s fearless intensity and Spock knew he had to regain control of the discussion. “If the fever returns—.”

     “I’ll be here,” Jim replied easily. “Whatever you need.”

     “It is not that simple!” Spock stared at the infuriating and infatuating human, at the seductive heat and earnest promise in hazel eyes.

     “Isn’t it?” Jim stubbornly crossed his arms in front of his chest. “My friend, maybe it _is_ that simple and we’re ignoring the obvious.”

     Spock shook his head with equal stubbornness. Jim did not understand the potential for violence, or the fundamental, exclusive commitment that would result. And Spock could not risk his friend; he could not risk losing Jim _again_ to a misunderstanding of Vulcan versus human sexuality.

     “Spock.”

     The Vulcan looked up. Jim was closer, but not near enough to touch. His expression was troubled, mirroring his thoughts, but the intensity was still there. “I could feel you closing off.”

     “Indeed?” Spock couldn’t manage more than that, but his tone betrayed his sudden concern. Jim was psi-null, nominally, but if this new development in his brain was due to the bond, as seemed likely, perhaps he, too, was experiencing increased sensitivity to his bondmate.

     Jim frowned. “I sensed…tension, like a headache, and I knew it was you. That’s the bond? I hadn’t been able to feel it like that before, if we hadn’t been touching or melded.”

     “My connection with—,” Spock stumbled over T’Pring’s name, “my prior connection was not as such. I believe your humanity may be of consequence, as I previously alluded.” He paused. “And the spontaneous nature of our bond implies a significant degree of mental compatibility.” Despite his disjointed statement and his lack of elaboration, he saw Jim nod thoughtfully.

     “Spock—,” the captain began, and then broke off, crossing with deliberate steps to stand next to the couch and then, after a small hesitation, sat down next to the Vulcan. “We’re each of us experiencing some form of distress. Would you agree?”

     Spock bit his lower lip again. He could feel the warmth of Jim’s body. “Evidently.”

     “Which seems to get better as we touch or interact; at least it did on Altair, and in our melds. Agreed?”

     “Yes, however—.” Spock clasped his own hands together defensively. The mental resonance of the _ozh’esta_ would bring them so dangerously close, and he still doubted his control, however marginally improved over what he had managed on Altair.

     Jim interrupted, glancing down at the Vulcan’s hands, bringing his own unobtrusively to his sides in a deliberately careful motion, “I won’t do that, but would you let me try something different?”

      Spock nodded and saw Jim swallow, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He saw his friend draw in a small breath, sensing anticipation and a whisper of fear over their veiled connection. And then Jim leaned forward, and the press of his mouth to Spock’s was gentle, almost tentative. The siren call of Jim’s thoughts was stronger with this contact and proximity but not as immediately intense as when his friend had entwined their fingers. Spock found it startling: this very human physical expression was significant but not overpowering, intimate but not telepathically intimidating. Simmering longing shifted into astonishing satisfaction with the warmth of Jim’s mouth and in the soft puff of Jim’s breath as he drew back, and Spock opened his eyes without realizing he’d closed them, seeing Jim’s wide-eyed gaze.

     An unfamiliar thrill ran through Spock’s body as fear fell away. He blinked, staring at Jim, feeling the human’s mind race frantically as a lopsided smile twisted his mouth.

     “You need to say something, Spock. Please.”

     “That was agreeable.”

     Jim let out a sharp bark of laughter and then shook his head. “Agreeable? That’s a first.”

     Spock blinked, still processing his response. “I believe your intuition is correct, Jim. I…feel…better.” He saw Jim staring at him with open wonder and Spock experienced a flush of self-consciousness.

     “May I kiss you again?” Jim sounded eager.

     “Yes.” This was spoken with greater confidence, and Spock tilted his head at his friend’s broad smile, closing his eyes as he felt the touch of Jim’s mouth again. This time, Spock allowed his lips to part, feeling the human’s mouth move more insistently. He could taste Jim; he could breathe him in, and Spock leaned into the contact, feeling the cautious touch and slide of their tongues and hearing a pleased sound from his friend, the bond illuminated with a play of echoing sensation.

     Even captured as he was by this human’s presence and movements, control had not completely abandoned him and he felt no danger of falling to madness. It was, as Jim had suggested, logical, but it was like nothing he had ever known. Perhaps T’Pring’s indifference had been more of a liability than he could have understood. Perhaps he had needed this: this affection, this willing touch, this joyful acceptance. The kiss deepened, and Spock felt Jim’s hands now in his hair, cool human fingers caressing his scalp, happiness and excitement chasing along the bond from Jim’s mind.

     Jim pulled gently away, his lips curved in a smile, his mind alight. “Still alright?”

     Spock somehow found his voice. “I am well, Jim. Thank you.”

     The captain snorted delicately. “You’re very welcome, Mr. Spock.” He sighed, letting his fingers slowly drop from his friend’s hair. “I suppose we probably should’ve tried this sooner. I feel better, too.” He laughed softly. “McCoy’s going to be mightily confused.”

     Spock raised an eyebrow. “If we continue as we are, the presence of the bond will eventually require disclosure.”

    Jim huffed. “Yes, I suppose. Eventually.” He studied Spock’s face, and then his own expression sobered slightly. “Do you want to eat?”

     Spock breathed in through his nose, catching Jim’s unique scent so close to him, even on his own skin, on his lips. That, too, was agreeable. “Not at present,” he said carefully.

     Jim’s frown was predictable, and as the human opened his mouth to argue, Spock lifted a hand to forestall him. “Jim, I find that I would prefer to attempt meditation instead.”

     The captain’s mouth closed and he nodded. “Of course.”

     Spock held his gaze. “May I attempt it here? With you?”

     Again, a broad smile creased his captain’s face, and Jim nodded more definitively. “Yes, my friend. I would be honored.”

 

 


	5. A New Normal

Chapter Five: A New Normal

 

     “Well, Spock, I don’t know that I can explain it, but I’m happy to tell you that all your indicators are back on track—blood work, weight, everything. And I can see that you seem to be back to your normal, implacable self.” McCoy shrugged. “Just under thirty days and it’s like it never happened.” The doctor rubbed a hand over his chin, peering at his patient. “You have anything to say for yourself?”

     Spock clasped his hands behind his back. “Clarify.”

     McCoy shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said simply. “I just don’t know, and that’s been the problem all along, hasn’t it? I mean, is this improvement just mental discipline finally working its magic or is it the calm before another storm? Have you learned anything new that might shed some light on this whole thing? I’ll admit that I tried myself, but got nothing back except some legalese about your status no longer falling under the auspices of the Vulcan health system and to contact Starfleet Medical instead.” He scowled, adding, “Whatever that means.”

     Spock did not reply and McCoy waited several seconds before raising his eyebrows pointedly. “What _does_ it mean, Spock?”

     The Vulcan lifted his chin. The doctor would find out eventually; there was no logic in avoiding the subject. “The sequence of events during the _kalifee_ resulted in the termination of my status as a Vulcan citizen and therefore the oversight of my health by the internal structure. As an unaffiliated Federation citizen and a member of Starfleet, I—.”

     He was interrupted by McCoy’s abrupt snort. “Yeah, okay, I get it.” He shook his head. “They really did that?”

     Spock blinked. “Obviously.” The significant improvement in his controls meant that he found no difficulty in regulating his own emotional response either to the subject matter or to the persistent physician.

     “Damn.” McCoy looked away briefly. “Does the Captain know?”

     “Affirmative.”

     “Of course.” The doctor rocked on his toes, his brow furrowed. “So we’re still playing this by ear, then. Keep doing what you’re doing and I’ll have you back in another two weeks. And, of course, let me know if you start to recognize any of the symptoms returning.”

     “Affirmative.”

     McCoy shook his head again, muttering, “I suppose I should be happy that you managed to pull yourself together. I only wish I had something to do with it.”

     The doctor’s predictable show of annoyance seemed to hide something akin to relief, and that particular sentiment was not limited to the human, though Spock would never admit as much. The improvement in his emotional regulation and mental discipline could be directly traced to successful meditation, but the truth was that the requisite focus was enabled by the underlying stability of Jim’s steadfast mental presence. Clarity had returned; and the constant touch of his bondmate’s mind was gentle reassurance, supplementing the low background of human psionic presence that Spock continued to invite.  Unburdened as he now was by fear or shame or unforgiving cultural tenants, Spock envisioned such awareness as a personal adaptation of _k’war’ma’khon_. Perhaps it was ironic that his present demeanor and discipline, manifesting as perfectly Vulcan, were achieved by the resonance of uncontrolled human minds, but Spock found it merely…logical.

     Despite the doctor’s tone of dismissal, he evidently was not yet finished. “Look, Spock, seeing as though I’ve got you here, I want to talk about Jim.”

     Spock straightened slightly, unable to avoid reflexive protectiveness. “Doctor, we are due to make planetfall in sixteen point two hours and I must see to final preparations for—.”

     “It won’t take long!” McCoy interrupted gruffly. “And it’s off the record. I’m asking about a friend, not our commanding officer.”

     “They are one and the same,” Spock commented quietly.

     “You know what I mean.” McCoy’s tightly drawn shoulders slumped. “He’s been avoiding me, obviously enough, and I’m generously assuming it’s for professional and not personal reasons.” He paused before continuing, “I suppose I got on him pretty hard after Vulcan.”

     Spock raised an eyebrow and McCoy rolled his eyes. “I’ve had some concerns, but I’m not going to slap him with a medical order to investigate further, especially if it were to go on his record. Komack’s got Jim in some hot water and I don’t want to make it any worse.”

     Spock tilted his head, but remained silent.

     “Anyway,” McCoy crossed his arms over his chest, “like I said, I’ve had concerns, but nothing definitive. And I can admit that I might be chasing ghosts out of a sense of helplessness, but I’ve got a bad feeling about all this.”

     “Indeed?”

     McCoy retorted sharply, “A lot of years practicing medicine has taught me not to ignore bad feelings, no matter what the resident Vulcan might think.” He shook his head, his eyes flicking over Spock’s body. “And I’ve also learned not to simply accept what appears too good to be true.”

     “As I specified earlier, Doctor, the affliction is cyclical,” Spock said quietly.

     “But it wasn’t resolved properly,” McCoy emphasized. He sniffed. “Or maybe it was. For all I know, an angel might’ve come down from heaven and tapped you on the head with a golden wand.”

     Spock lowered his eyes, refraining from a rejoinder, sensing that the doctor’s anger was no longer with him, but with Spock’s homeworld. It was not an attitude that the Vulcan was presently willing to dispute.

     McCoy huffed. “Getting back to Jim, though; has he talked to you?”

     “The captain speaks to me quite often,” Spock said blandly.

     “Dammit, Spock!” McCoy burst out.

     “I do not have anything further to add, Doctor. As you are aware, the captain’s efficiency ratings are exemplary, as is his command performance by any standard. He has mentioned, in passing, Admiral Komack’s scrutiny, but has not expressed specific concerns.” Spock’s tone was almost imperceptibly harder. No matter the improvement to his controls, he was unwilling to enter into such a conversation about his bondmate, particularly with the vague and almost probing nature of it.

     McCoy was watching him, the human’s expression unreadable, and he finally jerked his chin toward the door. “Okay, fine. If that’s all you have to say, then you better get back to it.”

     Spock inclined his head and turned crisply, walking through the opening doors and through sickbay toward the turbolift and Deck Three, his thoughts now strongly with his bondmate. McCoy’s assessment was accurate: Spock’s emotional controls and shields were fully functional; the underlying restlessness and physical urges had ceased, and his appetite had returned. The improvement had been rapid after his discovery of the need for regular physical as well as mental contact with Jim, but Spock, upon reflection, credited something subtler.

     The simple emotions of love and acceptance; the fact of Jim’s mind being so welcoming; the contentment shared as they touched: all had acted to bring balance. They had fallen into a routine of regular melds and gentle physical interaction: a kiss, in either the human or the Vulcan way, or, more often, just Jim’s hand on Spock’s shoulder as they reviewed ship’s business after shift. They had not needed to push further, and Spock, notably, had not retreated. It was revelatory: that a bondmate’s affection and confident friendship could act to temper biological instability. But, perhaps it was logical: _this_ connection was not an obligation, or forced; Spock considered that the severe reaction he had experienced might have been exacerbated by T’Pring’s rejection of him, compounded again by his own stubborn isolation.

     “Commander!” Lieutenant Alvarez waved from the entrance to one of the materials labs, catching Spock’s attention as he exited the turbolift. At once, the Vulcan’s thoughts shifted to his duties and data analysis that was being conducted in advance of the approaching planetary survey.

     “Yes, Lieutenant.”

     “I finished the calibration calculations you requested, sir, and still no luck. None of the standard materials fit the profile, and that’s even without explaining the transients we observed.” Alvarez pushed away an unruly lock of dark hair and handed him her PADD, her eyes bright.

     Spock hummed, scanning the figures. “Speculation?”

     She chewed her lower lip, shifting her stance to put her hands on her hips. “Well, I’ve got something, sir, but it sounds crazy.”

     Spock glanced at her. “Please continue, Ms. Alvarez.”

     “Right.” She drew in a breath. “It’s a life-sign.”

     He raised an eyebrow as she excitedly continued, “The data show intermittent pulses of what look like almost radiation surges which are immediately followed by nothing. Nada. Zero sensor signal, and then it starts all over again.”

     “Indeed. However, long-range scans have also shown no indication of higher-order life forms.”

     “Yes, sir, but these pulses, or signals, are concentrated underground, and there are regular pockets of them scattered all over the single continental mass. And they all seem to react to each other in a wavelike pattern over significant distance. Possibly indicating communication?”

    Spock tilted his head. “Have you mapped these patterns?”

     “Aye, sir,” she replied, shrugging. “But we’ve got a lot of data. I was on my way over to Comms to check out what I have so far, but—.”

     “I have an algorithm that may be useful as a mapping protocol.”

     She nodded eagerly. “I thought so, sir. I’m glad I caught you.”

     Spock handed her the PADD. “Report directly to Lieutenant Uhura with the current dataset and I will transmit additional output as it is processed.” He could sense his bondmate’s near presence as well as a perception of intent. Jim was looking for him.

     “Thanks, Commander. I’ve got everything set up in there,” Alvarez tilted her head toward one of the labs, “and data’s still coming in, of course. Resolution’s improving as we get closer and I tune in what to look for.”

     “Very good, Lieutenant. Carry on.”

     “Yes, sir!” She grinned and lifted the PADD in a mock salute, walking swiftly toward the turbolift, only just barely avoiding colliding with the captain as he stepped out.

     “Sorry, Captain!” she exclaimed, hopping backward.

     Jim smiled and gestured her forward. “Don’t worry about it, Alvarez. Carry on.”

     As she disappeared behind the closing doors, Jim walked forward, his smile widening as he approached his first officer. “Got something, Spock?”

     Spock allowed his expression to soften slightly. “Perhaps, Captain.”

     “Well, have at it,” Jim said, gesturing to the door of the lab. “I’m not due on the bridge for another hour; mind some company?”

     “That would be agreeable, sir.” Spock turned as the door slid open, sensing a rush of warm amusement from his bondmate as he heard Jim’s soft chuckle.

     The lab was empty, and Spock headed directly for the main computer terminal next to the multianalyzer. Jim pulled up another chair alongside, and watched as the Vulcan accessed the incoming datastream, keying in an access code to introduce the appropriate search and sorting algorithm.

     “Still narrowing in on those sensor transients?” Jim asked.

     “Yes.” Spock’s fingers moved confidently over the touchpad. “Ms. Alvarez is following up with Lieutenant Uhura.”

     “Uhura? Suggestive of communication, then?” Jim inquired thoughtfully. “I like how Alvarez thinks. I wonder if she could be lured onto the command-track.”

     “Given that her mother is presently in command of the _Reliant_ , I would venture that the subject has already been broached, sir,” Spock said dryly.

     Jim chuckled again. “No doubt it has.” He inched his chair closer. “Looking for a pattern of some kind?”

     “Affirmative,” Spock replied, content in his peripheral awareness of the warmth of Jim’s body. “Pattern identification is important, however, from the perspective of landing party safety, I am more concerned with sensor deadtime.”

     “If we can’t see it, then we can’t be prepared for it,” Jim translated, leaning even closer. “Are you processing the data now?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Don’t forget to check for polarity shifts in the radiation emission band, or something similar. Something subtle. It could indicate sentience.”

     Spock cautioned a glance to the side. “Interesting.”

     Jim smiled at him. “If anyone tells you that tactical thinking’s limited to firing phasers, then they’re missing the point.”

     Spock entered a final sequence and leaned back in his chair, looking again at his friend. Jim’s hazel gaze was focused on the screen, but his smile remained. Pleasant contentment suffused the bond and the human’s expression and the soft glow of the computer terminal illuminated a strong beauty that the Vulcan couldn’t help but appreciate.

     Spock understood human attraction to be, at least initially, strongly associated with physical appeal. For Vulcans, attraction as such was a foreign concept. Affinity was sought after: a fit between two minds or between two persons with corresponding strengths. Jim’s intelligence and professional excellence exemplified the Vulcan ideal of a compatible partner but the man also embodied an allure that had no basis in strict logic and everything to do with the curve of his lips and the exotic color of his eyes and the scent of his skin. Another adaptation that Spock was more than willing to acknowledge, and a low rising heat, quickly controlled, reminded the Vulcan of his reaction to McCoy’s earlier attempt at conversation, as well as realize that he had been staring.

     “I spoke with Doctor McCoy.”

     Jim nodded absently, eyes still searching the data display. “I could feel that you weren’t too tense about it, so I figured it was nothing but good news.” He finally looked over, lifting his eyebrows. “Was I correct?”

     “My physical readings have returned to norms. However,” Spock crossed his arms, “the doctor conveyed general concern with regard to you.”

     Jim grunted sarcastically. “What else is new?”

     Spock continued carefully, “He is particularly concerned on a personal level.”

     Jim sighed. “I’ve been avoiding him,” he admitted, and his eyes narrowed with sharp curiosity. “Are you suggesting that I need to work on my friendship with Bones?”

     Spock blinked. “I have had the opportunity, of late, to consider the importance of human attachments of varying definitions. I have concluded that they are most significant for general wellbeing.”

     “Really.” Jim’s lips quirked. “What gave you that idea?”

     Spock lowered his eyes briefly, arching his brows. “Recent personal experience.”

     Jim grinned suddenly. “First humor, and then lectures on friendship, Mr. Spock? I’m not sure if our bond is doing you more harm than good.”

     Spock allowed a slight smile in response to his friend’s teasing, answering primly, “I am certain that I do not understand your meaning.”

     Jim chuckled again before sobering. “There’s something else going on with Bones and I don’t know what it is, but it’s more than a question of command fitness or general henpecking.”

     “He alluded to Admiral Komack.”

     Jim made a low noise. “I wouldn’t say that Komack’s my biggest fan these days, but the admiral hasn’t said anything directly to me since Altair.” He shook his head. “No, I think it might have to do with my insistence of throwing in the towel, career-wise, to get you to Vulcan. McCoy’s used to me holding onto my ship with everything I’ve got, and I think it disturbed him. I think my actions on your planet disturbed him, too: my agreeing to the combat and all that.” He shrugged. “I suppose it spoke of a certain amount of personal compromise, at the least.”

     Spock lowered his eyes again, saying softly, “Perhaps the doctor’s intuition was not misinformed, considering what immediately followed.”

     Jim nodded. “He did save us both from,” he waved his hand, “any number of potential horrors. I’m not sure why I’m so reluctant to tell him about this except maybe—.” He trailed off, a series of expressions crossing his features amidst deepening emotional resonance over the bond. “Maybe I don’t want a fight with him. Not over this; not over something that I…want, and probably shouldn’t have.”

     Spock met his friend’s gaze, seeing vulnerability that, he imagined, few others had ever witnessed.

     The captain’s eyes grew distant, his voice almost reverent. “A soulmate, acceptance, a way to lay some of this down for a time without the risk of never being able to pick it up again. I can’t explain it, but we have it: finally, a beach to walk on.” He pressed his lips together, looking away briefly, and then continuing dryly, “Bones represents a return to reality that I’m not quite ready to face, I think. For the first time in my life.”

     Spock leaned toward him. “On the contrary, Jim. You have faced it fearlessly, and selflessly on my behalf. The regulations can be interpreted as being ambiguous with regard to this particular situation, however, I would not be opposed to disclosure. While the doctor’s immediate reaction will no doubt be negative, his counsel would be useful, especially since other avenues are closed.”

     “You mean Vulcan.”

     Spock inclined his head.

     “I often worry that I’m wrong; that I’ve pushed too far or made too quick a decision.” Jim paused, rubbing a knuckle over his lower lip. “What we have between us isn’t something that I worry about in that way, but the decision to tell Bones is. You and I were, and even still are, exposed, and at least for me, it’s in a way that I’ve never been comfortable with.” He met Spock’s eyes. “You remember Tarsus, of course. You had to pry that truth out of me: both of you. And even then—.” He trailed off and shifted in his seat, pointing at the screen behind Spock. “Looks like you’re getting some results.”

     Spock glanced at the terminal where multiple patterns were being displayed as a time series. When he looked back at his friend, the vulnerability had completely disappeared, subsumed into typical ready competency. Jim nodded crisply. “We’ll tell Bones after this mission. You’re doing much better now, and maybe it’ll get him to come clean about whatever’s really bugging him. Plus, he can hardly accuse me of compromise when I’m sending you down on your own.” The captain’s expression tightened.

      “Hardly on my own, Jim.”

     Jim made an irritated noise. “I give these new command protocols six months at most.”

     Spock tilted his head. “The response to the situation on Deneva remains—.”

     “As if that would have stopped me from beaming down in that case, threat or no,” Jim interrupted in a dark tone. He raised his chin abruptly, looking over at the chrono. “I’ve got to get to the bridge.”

     “I will follow you up.” Spock watched Jim’s expression shift minutely, the captain’s jaw muscles tensing. The sense of their bond was a muted blur of thought and multifaceted feeling, masked beneath a stubbornly firm human countenance. The events on Deneva had left Jim with guilt and grief; neither of which had been fully resolved. For a brief instant, Spock considered his own position as this man’s bondmate, his own responsibility to provide comfort and support, and his questionable ability to do so.

     “I’ll look forward to your preliminary report,” Jim said, his eyes meeting Spock’s, and after a tentative hesitation, he offered the _ozh’esta_.

     It was the first offering of such an intimacy outside the privacy of their quarters, but Spock returned the gesture immediately, his shoulders relaxing as their fingers touched and softly stroked. Jim’s eyes closed, and Spock could sense the slow retreat of strong emotion. Protectiveness and warmth swelled, along with a larger sense of assurance. As Jim was able to soothe him, Spock was evidently capable of the same for his friend. Another fear lay vanquished.

     The captain exhaled and opened his eyes again as their hands separated. “That feels a lot more appropriate than a human kiss, especially when we’re on-duty.” He smiled. “I’ll see you up there.”

     Spock remained seated as his friend left the lab, still feeling lingering sensation where their skin had touched. Uncompelled desire was still new to him, the balance between control and expression still being sought, but if the symptoms of his unsatisfied _pon farr_ were to return he no longer dreaded the consequences, newly confident in his restraint and perspective. Spock did not fear madness, but, as result of their careful exploration, he looked forward to the cool press of human flesh and the warm entanglement of their minds; he longed for the deep fulfillment of a full bond. For the first time in his life, Spock understood what it meant to be hopeful, with the emotional dimension it entailed.

     But as Jim had not pressed Spock, neither would Spock compel his human friend, particularly in light of the complex emotional response that Jim was experiencing. The rigid cultural precepts of Vulcan, the stern declaration of _vre’kasht_ , the driving imperative of the impending _plak tow_ : all had left the Spock with a sharp distaste for duress of any kind and he was content for this new dimension to be slowly incorporated into their daily lives.

 

Chapter End Notes:

 

Vulcan translations from the VLD:

 

_k’war’ma’khon_ : the mental linking of one Vulcan to another; the being of one people, one world

 

 


	6. Tightening The Knot

Chapter Six: Tightening The Knot

 

     Spock rose from his crouch near a large boulder at the base of a sharply rising sheer rock face, breathing in lightly chilled air scented with salt and the pungent aroma of the surrounding vegetation. The planetary survey was concluding its third and final day, and the source of the sensor transients remained elusive.

     “I guess that’s it, sir,” Sulu commented next to him. “At least if we’re going to make the rendezvous with the _Potemkin_ on schedule.”

     “Evidently.” Spock carefully controlled both exasperation and curiosity, identifying and isolating each emotion before consciously dismissing it from his thoughts and physical responses.

     Sulu was more demonstrative, his face twisting with annoyance as he reached up to brush his fingers through the soft, frond-like branches of one of the native plants. “The closer we got the less localized the signal became. It was like our sensors were working against us.” He shrugged as Spock regarded him. “Sorry, Commander. I’m not too happy about loose ends.”

     “Your dissatisfaction is not inappropriate to the situation,” Spock replied. The search algorithm had indicated results consistent with randomness rather than suggestive of patterns of communication. And Sulu’s assessment was essentially accurate: the closer they came to possible locations of the phenomenon, the more ambiguous the readings.

     “Well,” Sulu said, “the survey results look like this planet will be high on the list for a more detailed investigation, at least.” He attempted a smile. “There’re good things about this job and bad things, and having to break off in the middle of something interesting seems to be one of the bad things.”

     “Indeed.” Spock tilted his head. “Your diligence during this mission was commendable, Lieutenant.”

     The helmsman’s smile widened. “Thank you, sir. It felt good to get my hands dirty again.”

     “If your duties permit, perhaps you would be inclined to participate in the preparation of the xenobotany summary report.”

     Sulu grinned. “Absolutely, sir.” He adjusted the strap of his tricorder. “Multiple specializations have good things and bad things, too.” He shrugged again. “Good thing is I might have a ship of my own someday. Bad thing is that I rarely get to use my degree. I appreciate the opportunity, Mr. Spock.”

     Spock inclined his head. It was…easier to converse with the crew of late, and their responsiveness to him indicated that some nonobvious change was evident in his demeanor. He speculated that the bond was affecting him in more subtle and unexpected ways, perhaps influencing him to mirror Jim’s natural intuitive camaraderie. It would be interesting to discuss this with his bondmate upon his return to the ship.

     Sulu glanced over as Ensign Shah appeared through the lush greenery, carrying a large sample case.

     “Ready, Commander,” the young man called, moving to stand next to Sulu.

     Spock flipped open his communicator. “Spock to _Enterprise_.”

     The response was immediate. “Enterprise _, Uhura here. Go ahead, Mr. Spock.”_

     “Sample sets have been completed. Prepare to beam up landing party.”

     _“Affirmative, sir. Transporter room is standing by.”_

     Spock switched channels. “Status check; all team leaders respond. Stand by for transport.”

     He listened as two of the team leaders promptly acknowledged, exchanging a glance with Sulu as the third team remained silent. Spock switched channels again. “Lieutenant Alvarez, respond please. Status check.” There was nothing, and then a beat of static, and then the fractured sound of a tinny, ragged scream, followed by eerie silence.

     Sulu pulled his phaser and Spock flipped the emergency signal. “ _Enterprise_ , request emergency beam-out of balance of the landing party; have medics standing by.”

     Uhura’s tense voice came back in a matter of seconds, _“Teams two and four onboard, Mr. Spock, but we can’t get a fix on team three! Their communicators are offline and sensors are locally obscured!”_

     “We will attempt rescue.” Spock closed the communicator and replaced it on his belt, reaching for his phaser and snapping, “Mr. Sulu, you’re with me. Mr. Shah, return to the ship and advise status.” He was already moving; Sulu close on his heels.

     “They were nearly a kilometer distant, sir! Bearing two-eight!” Sulu yelled as they entered the gloom of the surrounding forest, a softening chime behind them indicating Shah’s disappearance. Spock’s thoughts raced efficiently and analytically: assessing what he had memorized of the terrain and necessarily shuttering his perception of the bond despite Jim’s surging emotions.

     Vulcan hearing discerned the faintest sound of another scream ahead of them and Spock increased his pace, leaving Sulu even further behind. A shrill beep came unexpectedly from his tricorder and Spock registered the automatic alert’s association with the obscure transient signal. He ran faster still as the forest thinned around him, rounding a thick copse of large plants and sliding instinctively under an immense, translucent, evidently living form extending out of the ground.

     The creature was much larger than anything previously registered by the survey, and as it swung lazily overhead, Spock’s eyes traced shiny, nearly featureless skin down into what now appeared to be a collapsed cave surrounded by fresh dirt and fractured white rock. The Vulcan pressed himself to the ground, gripping his phaser, peering into the yawning darkness to see other, coiled parts of the creature and then a flash of familiar Science blue. A terrified, choked noise came sharply from the very center of the roiling mass, accompanied by a sudden spatter of red human blood up and against the broken rock and, still prone on his belly, Spock began to fire his weapon.

     A stun beam did not seem to have any effect, the pulses simply absorbing into the creature’s outer membrane, and Spock rapidly switched to the kill setting, firing into the thickest visible part of the creature. Brilliant energy flashed over the shimmering, almost wet-appearing dermal covering and the creature shuddered and stretched erratically, a primal groan echoing from the darkness beneath. Successive, precise shots finally resulted in perceptible physical damage as a portion of the creature split open with a welling of viscous, pale pink liquid and it reared back, scraping against the rock, the groan coming again.

     Sulu arrived with a shocked exclamation in Japanese and the Vulcan shouted, “Kill setting! Lay down cover fire!” Spock waited just long enough to see the first flash of the helmsman’s weapon and then he pushed to his feet, rushing toward the opening, background mental analysis suggesting that whatever this heretofore undiscovered creature was, it had something to do with the sensor blackout as well as the communication interruption. It was unlikely that the ship would be unable to achieve transporter lock given the creature’s proximity; he had to retrieve the injured crew himself.

     His forward rush was driven by reflexes and instinct: moving fast and low, evading the rolling undulations of the creature and practically diving into the jagged hole, feeling his tricorder snap and fall away. Inside, he pressed back against the uneven rock walls as gleaming coils slithered in front of him with a slippery, visceral sound. He held his phaser in front of him, seeing the slow, relentless retreat of the creature’s bulk even deeper into the darkness, moving away and taking its human prey with it.

     Over the almost metallic scent of the creature, he could smell iron-rich human blood and saw another flash of a blue tunic. He fired once, into the tight coils, and the groan rang again, echoing around him, the coils unwinding just enough for him to see Alvarez’s bloodstained torso. He did not hesitate, lunging forward to grab the scientist’s arm and roughly pulled, firing again as the creature refused to release its hold. The officer was released abruptly and Spock fell backwards, his phaser dropping from his grip as her warm weight fell limply into his arms. Her mind throbbed weakly and painfully and he dragged her immediately up toward the light, glancing back to see another human body trapped in the shifting coils, becoming visible briefly.

     Above him, Sulu was firing almost constantly, the air smelling of ozone, and the roars from the creature were growing louder and higher-pitched. It had halted its retreat to just inside the opening and begun to thrash, and Spock did not notice the translucent, serrated structures of varying lengths embedded in its shiny flesh until they had ripped into him as he attempted to evade contact in the close quarters. He ignored the pain, heaving Alvarez’s body out and away with every ounce of his strength, seeing Sulu move nearer to retrieve her.

     Spock twisted and let himself fall back into the cave, feeling his tunic grow wet with his own blood as he hit the rock floor hard, just barely beneath a swipe from the tumescent creature. He scrambled, rolling in the tight space and pressing against the wall, no longer able to see any sign of the two other missing crewmembers, and he lowered his mental shields, probing for the resonance of a human mind; even in unconsciousness he might sense—.

     There was something: very faint, and he gritted his teeth, diving forward and into the very heart of the pulsing coils. He pushed aside clammy alien flesh, noting and then dismissing the pain as his own skin tore open, the barbs smaller here. The creature was not sentient; its mind was absent of anything but instinct and pain and fierce hunger, and Spock hissed as Kessler’s mutilated body rolled into view. The Vulcan reached and pulled, but couldn’t gain any purchase, and the larger appendage swung back around, flesh impacting his own back with a shock of pain. Spock slumped to his knees, releasing his grip on the young man to scrabble at his own back, pulling the elongated barb from his body in a rush of hot blood and swinging it forward into the nearest coil, dragging it in and down as pink liquid pooled.

     A terrible howl resounded in the space, and Kessler came loose with a jerk, an arm missing and his eyes wide and terrified, mouth open in a silent, gasping scream. He was alive, though, and Spock scrambled backward, keeping a tight grip on his rescued charge. The coils began to tighten, moving together in a vaguely circular motion as the great creature began its retreat again. The rock above them shuddered and dirt and debris rained down as the alien descended into unknown darkness with a harsh, sliding noise, leaving a trail of pale pink fluids, and Spock curled protectively around the injured crewman’s body. Kessler moaned, his pain ricocheting into Spock’s unprotected mind along with Sulu’s fear and Jim’s distant anxiety and the Vulcan looked up to the window of lavender sky above him. He moved, reaching with blood-slickened fingers to grasp bare rock and pull. Up, and up, until a blurred figure in command yellow was beside him, helping, and Spock realized that he himself was in shock. They somehow made it to the surface; somehow made it several meters away where Alvarez lay insensate, and Sulu released his hold to flip open his communicator, shouting into it, begging for a response.

     Spock still clung to Kessler, feeling the young man succumb, mercifully, to unconsciousness, and only then noticed the thick barb penetrating his own upper thigh. A source of the considerable blood loss, and he automatically calculated the likelihood of significant arterial damage, concluding that he had little more than minutes left, taking into account—.

     Sulu’s face loomed over him. “Mr. Spock! Sir, stay with me! I’ve got the ship; the signal’s clearing now! Sir!”

     Spock was barely conscious himself when the transporter’s song enveloped his body, and the first thing he saw as he materialized was Jim Kirk’s horrified expression. Medics swarmed the platform and Kessler’s unconscious body was pulled away from him as Spock reached for Jim’s mind helplessly, choking on psionic overload, hearing the hiss of hypos and shouted orders. Hands on his person, and pain, and he heard Jim’s raised voice followed by Sulu’s earnest replies, sensing his bondmate’s frantic emotions and feeling his own heart race in response. And then there was another hiss and everything faded into thick silence.

 

~.~

 

     Spock came back to consciousness in a wave of numbing cold and fierce nausea, struggling to control the pain that cascaded through his entire body. Keeping his eyes shut against the bright lights, he turned his head on the pillow, feeling leaden muscles protest, tremulous mental shielding straining as he mentally grasped for—.

     Jim was somewhere close-by and his mind was bright and warm, wrought with roiling emotion but open and comforting, and Spock allowed his own thoughts to settle along their connection, seeking a familiar center and fortifying his wavering discipline. Slowly, slowly, his body’s response to the pain and discomfort was brought under a modicum of control and he was able to assess his injuries. Surgery had apparently been necessary and medication still strongly affected his systems; his blood volume was significantly reduced and he had not entered into the _tow-kath_ despite all preliminary indications that he should have done so to facilitate recovery. That fact was somewhat disturbing, but further contemplation was aborted as Spock heard his bondmate’s angered voice.

     “The least you can do is turn up the temperature. It’s freezing in here for him.”

    Spock could now sense the doctor’s presence as well: a recognizable resonance emerging from the background of human energies by virtue of his proximity and because of Jim’s immediate focus.

     “Jim, I know you’re worried, but let me do my job. He’s on a heating pad, and we’re monitoring his body temperature. He’s—.”

     “Dammit, Bones, I—.” Jim’s voice abruptly broke off. “He’s coming out of it.”

     McCoy sounded annoyed. “I can see that, Jim. Stand back.”

     Spock drew in a ragged breath and opened his eyes a slit as he heard the doctor’s approach.

     “Spock? Can you hear me?”

     Spock opened his mouth, dry as it was. “Yes…Doctor. Captain, are you—?”

     “I’m here.” Spock could feel his bondmate’s mental turmoil and concern as strongly as the reassuring touch that Jim placed gently on his wrist. The skin-to-skin contact was brief but stabilizing, and brought powerful awareness of deep-seated affection, of love and protectiveness and barely-suppressed fear. Jim’s expression was carefully restrained, but his eyes were overly bright, and the captain clasped his own hands behind his back in a halting, reluctant movement.

     McCoy bent closer to his patient. “Spock, I can give you more pain meds, but it would probably help if you could initiate a healing trance. Is there a reason you haven’t? Anything I should know?”

     Spock swallowed. “I…I will attempt it.”

     “Good.”

     Spock closed his eyes, and then drew in a sharp breath, opening his eyes again. “Kessler…and Alvarez. Are they—?”

     “They’re alive,” McCoy responded gently. “Thanks to you.” He added gravely, “We never found Ensign Noori’s body. Alvarez reported that he was directly above the creature when it broke through; he didn’t have a chance.”

     “I take full responsibility for—,” Spock began.

     “No,” Jim cut in firmly, and Spock turned his head to look up into earnest hazel eyes. “No, it wasn’t your fault. That creature’s skin was infused with some kind of substance that actively resists sensor probes. Even with her tricorder tuned to precise parameters, Lieutenant Alvarez didn’t know what hit them until it was too late.” The captain glanced at McCoy and then looked again at Spock. “It was the source of those transient signals all along, and also affected transporter lock and communications. Your department is working to analyze the substance even as we speak. It might be the next major breakthrough in operational stealth technology.” His voice held no excitement, though, and, unexpectedly, Spock found himself uncaring of scientific explanations.

     Spock wanted physical reassurance in addition to his bondmate’s resolute mental attendance: a _want_ that was dizzying and very human and made much more difficult to contend with by the stiff retention of the distance held in obvious deference to the doctor’s presence.

     The captain pressed his lips together, masking a yearning that matched Spock’s. “Doctor’s orders, Spock. I need you back on the bridge.” There was a touch of nervousness now coloring their link and Spock realized his friend’s determined intention to finally inform the doctor of what they shared. Spock did not disagree: secrecy meant separation and he was finished with separation where Jim was concerned. He ached for his bondmate. So this, _this_ was love. Beyond cherishing and into the truly inexplicable: this was love.

     Recognition came with dizzying freedom: to know that home no longer consisted of a place of rules and expectations and veiled disapproval but was now defined by ‘he who is beloved’. Spock closed his eyes again, using Jim’s mind to center him, as he usually did at the start of meditation. The _tow-kath_ beckoned, now within reach as if some prior stubbornness had prevented logical relinquishment, and Spock slowly sank into deep concentration, perceiving only distantly the two humans lingering at his bedside and the thick blanket that was laid gently over his body. He could hear, but his awareness of the bond was dampened under the demands of the trance. Even emotions ran beyond his reach as his energy shifted to healing.

     “That’s done it,” McCoy commented above him. “Readings indicate he’s gone under.” The doctor sighed loudly. “Or as much as I can tell with the piss-all that’s included in my xenomedical database. I swear his people have secrecy down to a science.” He paused, continuing softly, “He’ll be warmer under the thermal blanket; no worries there, Jim.”

     The captain made a noncommittal grunt. “Is he going to be okay, Bones?”

     McCoy replied, “I think so, but this whole thing—. I’m going to put in a request to have a specialist added to the medical staff; see if we can find anyone that’s had practical experience on Vulcan.” There was a long pause and then the doctor prompted, “You want to tell me what all that was about?”

     “What?” Jim asked abruptly, and there was a weak note in his voice that betrayed his nervousness.

     “What,” McCoy mimicked. “Jim, you’re an excellent bluffer, except when it comes to Spock. Let’s have it.”

     There was a long hesitation before Jim replied tightly, “Alright, Bones.” But he broke off with a strong exhale and a muttered, “Dammit.”

     McCoy cleared his throat, breaking the ensuing awkward silence. “Look, Jim, I can’t tell you that I don’t have any idea what you’re about to say, but there’s…there’s a reason I’m asking.” He audibly swallowed. “Probably something that I should have mentioned a while ago.” He shifted next to the bed. “You need to know that I’m breaking direct orders to tell you this.”

     “Orders?” The strength had returned to Jim’s voice, along with something vaguely dangerous. “What are you talking about?”

     “Komack,” replied the doctor quietly. “After T’Pau’s message, he’s been requesting medical logs and my own personal observations related to your interactions with your XO: all under the purview of an internal inquiry as to potential compromise of the chain of command, and all requiring my official silence. Per regulations, and pending the inquiry’s resolution, I was bound to—.”

     “Compromise.” Jim’s comment was guarded. “Why?”

     “Because of the obvious intimacy between you and Spock.”

     “Obvious intimacy,” Jim repeated flatly.

     The doctor sighed. “I know that these last few months have been particularly trying—.” He trailed off. “It’s good to have a command team who operate in sync, but you two have become almost too close. Maybe—.”

     “Maybe what?” Now there was a note of anger in Jim’s voice.

     “Come on, man!” McCoy exploded. “You basically told Komack to go fuck himself in order to save Spock’s life and that’s not something that will just be forgotten. And honestly, Jim, compromise isn’t a crazy concept in my opinion, given what happened and what I’ve observed.” He huffed. “I’m not going to even get into the existence of that mysterious increased activity in your brain which quite conveniently coincided with our trip to Vulcan and your own admission that you’ve melded with him.”

     The doctor continued vehemently, “This goes beyond me; this is command fitness and the admiral’s invoked every clause in the book to get his information and to tie my hands!”

     Jim scoffed. “The meld isn’t evidence of anything; he’s a Vulcan, and—.”

     “And Vulcans don’t _do_ that, Jim! They don’t meld casually. And you’re forgetting Komack’s history with the _Intrepid_. His slippery ‘to each their own’ attitude? His push to have Spock reassigned to that ship as soon as it launched?”

     “Komack wanted to give him the captaincy. Spock declined.”

     “You declined, too.”

     “He’s the best first officer in the Fleet,” Jim asserted. “You said it yourself. Why would I voluntarily send him away if he didn’t want to go?”

     McCoy cautioned, “You have to take a step back, Jim. Consider this a heads-up before things go too far.”

     “I can’t believe you’re saying that to me. You, of all people should understand—.”

     “I have eyes, you know, and I care about _both_ of you, dammit. And I know what might happen if Komack gets his way: you, riding a desk at HQ and Spock, relegated to a ship full of his disapproving compatriots. Just…give him some space, for both your sakes. Hell, I’m still concerned that these latest injuries might initiate the fever again, never mind any additional emotional pressure.” McCoy’s voice shifted as he leaned forward. “He’s still vulnerable from the _pon farr_ , Jim, despite his miraculous recovery and his bullshit poker face.”

     Jim sounded shocked. “I’m not taking advantage of—.”

     “I know you’re not,” McCoy interrupted before amending, “I hope you’re not.”

     “You’re way out of line,” Jim muttered.

     McCoy’s voice now rung with frustrated anger. “Do you think this hasn’t scared the shit out of me, too, Jim? Do you think it was easy for me to helplessly watch him suffer like that on Deneva with those fucking parasites entwined through his body? And then to see him blinded? And then the blood fever and what happened on Vulcan, and now _this_?” The doctor made a choked noise as he audibly brought himself back under control. “Do you think I don’t _care_ , Jim?” He sniffed. “I’m terrified; I think I care too much, and I see you doing the same, and it’s dangerous in our line of work.”

     “It isn’t,” Jim insisted suddenly. “And you know that. We’re out here for five years in the black, with no one and nothing within our reach except each other and the vision that we serve: to give of ourselves and to be the best we can be, the best examples of our cultures and our species. To do the right thing, even at the highest cost. It’s not written in any manual, Bones, but it’s the truth. It’s our truth, and Komack wouldn’t know anything about it because he’s never been out here.”

     Spock’s concentration briefly faltered as the sheer emotion in Jim’s mind blazed across their bond.

     “And that’s what Spock did, Bones, when he continued to work through the pain over Deneva. Gods help me, that’s what he did for Chris Pike, and when he touched the Horta: the right goddamn thing. And, yes, I disobeyed orders to save his life. That’s not compromise, that’s—.”

     “Love,” McCoy broke in, and the captain’s silence was deafening.

     “Isn’t it, Jim?” The doctor’s question was soft.

     The captain returned brusquely, “I’m not going to discuss this with you, Doctor. Not after…not in the context of what was just said. If Komack wants your opinion, then you can give it to him. I’m not prepared to be separated from Spock, and you can do with that statement what you will.”

     “Jim,” Bones began. “Jim!”

     But there was only the sound of briskly retreating footsteps, and the soft huff of McCoy’s sigh. “Dammit, Jim. Goddammit.”

     Unrelenting concentration left no room for reaction, or suppression, and Spock heard no more as the doctor himself finally walked away.

 

 


	7. Conjuring Fire

Chapter Seven: Conjuring Fire

 

     Spock emerged slowly from the depths of meditation, sensing his bondmate’s attention on him. The hour was late; Jim should have been asleep, but he had closely guarded Spock’s release from sickbay that afternoon and had presented excuse after flimsy excuse to stay up working as the Vulcan knelt nearby, attempting to reorder his mind after the exhausting _tow-kath_.

     “Spock.” Jim was slouched in his desk chair, still in uniform. His hands were curled into loose fists on his armrests and the pale light from the computer terminal illuminated new creases in his face. “Any problems?”

     “Negative.” Spock lowered his eyes as he shifted, moving to settle cross-legged on the floor, his hands resting on his knees. Lingering discomfort remained, but it was easily manageable. He did not pretend to misunderstand his friend’s specific concern, however. “The persistence of the substance within my body does not seem to have had any perceptible adverse effect.”

     Jim swallowed tightly. “It had a ‘perceptible effect’ on the medical sensors; something that McCoy hadn’t noticed until you had come out of that…trance.” The lines on the captain’s face seemed to deepen, and Spock recalled Jim’s shock and fear as McCoy had struck the Vulcan again and again. Spock’s first sight upon regaining awareness had been of Chapel slowly releasing her restrictive hold on Jim’s arms, the nurse’s own visage pale and distressed.

     “Inert,” Jim grumbled, his thoughts a gloomy, shifting morass. “At least that’s how the materials and bioscience teams described it, and what McCoy ultimately agreed, but—.” He trailed off, his lips twisting.

   Spock lifted his chin. “I have no reason to dispute their conclusion. And the sensor effect was nearly negligible at the trace concentration present in my body.”

     The captain continued darkly, “Designation KA-12-167, coined ‘ambiguite’ by the bio people, to the great chagrin of the mineralogists. And HQ is over the moon about it. Not just because of the impact to the long-range sensors, but, now, because of the lingering presence of it in your body, and Kessler’s and Alvarez’s, the potential for it to be used in closer combat quarters. A personal cloaking device, if you will.” The bond was strung taut, the human’s very form practically vibrating with tension, the serrated edge of cynicism permeating Jim’s voice.

     “Jim.”

     “I don’t like this.” Jim averted his eyes. “I don’t like my people being used as test subjects.”

     Spock tilted his head, attempting to catch the human’s gaze again. “Observation would be required in any case, as it is doubtful that the substance can be simply flushed from—.”

     “That doesn’t matter!” Jim stood abruptly and began to pace back and forth, fists at his sides. “It’s out of my hands, Spock. Like so much else, I’m newly discovering.”

     Spock simply watched him. “You are referring to Doctor McCoy’s interactions with Admiral Komack,” he offered gently.

     Jim halted, his back to his first officer, his shoulders rising and falling. He turned in a stiff movement, his brow furrowed. “You heard all that, didn’t you? When you were in the trance.”

     Spock raised a brow. “Yes, Jim.”

     Jim hummed, uncharacteristically chewing on a thumbnail before flexing his hand and lowering it to his side, moving with slow deliberateness to re-seat himself in his desk chair. “Well. I guess that means I don’t have to figure out a way to tell you.” He shrugged and held his hands out, tired humor now lightening his eyes. “So, Mr. Spock, what do you think?”

     Spock folded his hands in front of him, pausing before replying. It was interesting that Jim’s demeanor seemed to shift so quickly; the Vulcan sensed…relief. The conversation with McCoy had been intense, and the prospect of Komack’s directed ire had not helped. Perhaps Jim was grateful to be able to avoid a lengthy and emotionally draining explanation, or perhaps he was simply pleased for the burden to be shared. Spock said, “I believe that the admiral’s efforts are aimed more to assuage his bruised ego than a definitive attempt to damage our careers. Any inquiry may be a way to pre-emptively counter any claim you yourself might make regarding his questionable orders requiring our presence at the Altair ceremonies.”

     “Maybe,” Jim replied. “But my gut tells me that he’s going to start trouble. Hell, he already has.” Jim paused. “Obviously, I didn’t tell McCoy about the bond; I don’t want to put him in the position of feeling he has to lie for us and Komack would take us to the cleaners with that information.” He licked his lips. “I know that I made that decision unilaterally.”

     Spock lowered his eyes briefly. “My homeworld will not be a source of support should our bond be used against us in a formal inquiry.” He blinked. “On the contrary, an unfavorable result of such an inquiry would lend credence to the opinion held by those on my planet that Vulcan officers venturing into the space service be assigned to Vulcan ships. A view, I might add, that the admiral has espoused for some time.”

     Jim grunted, commenting, “I’ve noticed that you’re Vulcan enough when it suits them, and then all too human otherwise.”

     “That is neither a new or novel position,” Spock said plainly. “However, I must point out that were I to have accepted a post in the Vulcan Space Program, or onboard the _Intrepid_ , the disruption caused by my recent affliction would not have—.”

     Jim expression contorted and he moved abruptly, slipping down to mimic Spock’s position on the floor, close but not touching. His eyes were bright in the low light. “And we’d have been dead long before that, Spock.” He shook his head. “You forget all the times you saved this ship; all the times you offered your intellectual expertise, or physical strength or mental gifts; all the times you presented an alternative point of view. This ship needs you. It continues to need you.” He swallowed. “I need you.”

     Spock was silent, sensing that Jim had more to say.

     The captain continued forcefully, “You scared me, Spock. Badly. And this isn’t something that Bones could help me with, or regulations.”

     “I—.”

     “No.” Jim held up a hand. “I need to talk this out; just bear with me.” He took a breath, licking his lips again. “I know what our jobs mean; I’ve faced death, you’ve faced death. I’ve had to order you into terrible situations and I’ll probably have to do so again.” He rubbed his hands together. “I can see what McCoy was trying to say; I can understand why he’s so concerned. I could feel…something of your pain, even though we were separated and I had to try to shut you out, Spock. I hated doing that.”

     “But you were successful,” Spock remarked. “There was no compromise.”

     Jim gave a raw chuckle. “Oh, there was compromise, but I kept right on giving orders.” He twisted his mouth sarcastically. “Command training at its best.”

     Spock met his captain’s gaze directly, knowing that emotions could be hidden behind a command persona as surely as Spock’s own emotions were hidden behind his Vulcan mask. “To identify an emotion and then to remove its influence on actions and decisions is quintessentially Vulcan. It is also inherent to command practice. I do not doubt your ability to satisfy the requirements of duty despite strong personal feeling.”

     Jim’s eyes were haunted. “In the moment, perhaps; in a life or death situation. But the aftermath was the worst.” He stared, his eyes fathomless. “When I went back to the bridge and the situation’s over and you’re still in danger, still in pain. When the adrenaline fades and I’m left with fear and guilt and worry and I can’t touch you. And even if McCoy found out, and even if Komack turned a blind eye, it would be the same because we hold between us, you and I, the responsibility for all these lives. We don’t have the luxury of…of showing _weakness_ like that.” Jim shook his head slightly. “Maybe Vulcan discretion is the same as command discipline in that way, too. But neither discretion nor discipline seemed to help.”

     He sighed. “And I didn’t know what to do, so I acted the fool and ran down to sickbay and yelled at Bones about the temperature of the room. And of course his first thought is that I’m compromised. I just…I just wanted to touch you.” His voice trembled almost imperceptibly, tension along the bond almost unbearable. “I want to touch you now.”

     Spock’s lips parted and Jim shook his head again, adding firmly, “I don’t want to push. Bones also cautioned me about taking advantage and I worry that he’s right about that, too.”

     Spock watched him for a long moment before lifting a hand and reaching out, gently brushing his fingers over Jim’s temple and down his cheek and jawline, feeling the faintest roughness there. The captain exhaled with the contact and Spock’s fingers continued, wandering along the curve of Jim’s neck and across his shoulder, moving back to slide slowly across his chest before pressing his palm over the human’s pounding heart. “I need you as well, my _t’hy’la_. Very much.” He mirrored Jim’s own words as they had stood in the small conference room on Altair, and did not attempt to suppress the heat that was slowly building between them, the reflections of his bondmate’s emotions so vivid. Their minds were already so deeply connected, and Jim’s need was Spock’s own, and it was the Vulcan who moved first, his hand at Jim’s chest curling into a fist, gently grasping the fabric of Jim’s tunic and tugging him forward just enough to… .

     Jim’s mouth was on his, and, despite the intensity that seemed to shatter the air around them, the kiss was as soft and searching as anything they’d shared so far. Jim slowly rose to his knees, and Spock followed, more awkwardly, opening his mouth willingly and leaning into the kiss, their bodies pressed against each other. Jim moved just enough to mouth a warm trail along the Vulcan’s jaw and down, and he buried his head against Spock’s neck as his arms curled around the Vulcan’s body to hold them together even tighter. It was an embrace unlike Spock had ever, consciously, shared before, and he felt how his friend so desperately needed it. Spock returned it, one hand moving to caress Jim’s hair and the other slipping along the lower hem of the captain’s tunic, wanting skin against skin.

     Jim hummed quietly, a warm, pleasant vibration against Spock’s neck, and the Vulcan slid his hand up and under his bondmate’s shirt, daringly intimate. His hand flattened against the small of Jim’s back and Spock felt the tautness of muscle there, the cool-warm sensation of human skin, and he heard a sigh as Jim relaxed into him.

     Molten heat ran down Spock’s body as he felt Jim’s fingers tighten in the fabric of his meditation robe, pulling them even closer. Spock turned his head to nuzzle into Jim’s hair, his hand under his friend’s shirt sliding further up and then moving in a delicate, circular caress. Touch was everything, _everything_ , and both of his hands were now stroking Jim’s skin, the gold tunic pushed up against their motions. This was contact like he’d never known, and endlessly fascinating. More, it was compelling, stimulating, and had ignited something inside of himself matched by dynamic human resonance along their bond. Jim’s mouth found his again, their tongues coming together immediately: a deep, wet kiss, and Jim’s hands were in Spock’s hair, again pulling them together.

     This was nothing like the long, lonely journey to Vulcan. This was nothing like the cold, bitter urges that had wracked him as he had drawn nearer to T’Pring. This was the sultry heat on the surface of his planet, the hot sun bathing his skin and the bite of the sand. This was the smell of Jim’s sweat and the firmness of his body. This was the call of Spock’s most primitive self, and yet without the danger and cruelty of combat. Only desire, and just from this simple but shockingly powerful intimacy. Spock wanted to touch Jim everywhere; he yearned to feel the length of the human’s body against his, skin against skin and everywhere a point of psionic contact, everything flushed with this…passion.

     Spock felt himself harden, gasping into their kiss as he felt Jim’s arousal against his own, and the human leaned his head back, murmuring, “You’re…gods…Spock, get my clothes off. I want…I need—.”

     The intercom whistled suddenly and Jim’s breathless plea devolved into an impressive litany of swearing. Spock caught himself, calling on every bit of his mental discipline to calm his body and his mind, pulling away from his friend’s body and making it, somehow, to his feet, tugging on his meditation robe and trying to calm the undulating, desperately heated bond.

     The whistle came again as Jim crawled to his desk, still evidently aroused and with his hair in complete disorder. He hauled himself to his feet and savagely punched at the console, keying it for audio-only response. “Kirk here.”

     _“Lieutenant Tamzin, sir. Priority communication from Admiral Komack at Command.”_

     Jim glanced back at Spock, grimacing slightly, and then turned to the comm. “Pipe it down here, Lieutenant.”

     _“Aye, sir. Switching.”_

     Spock made a movement toward their shared bathroom, intending to return to his own quarters, but was forestalled by Jim’s raised hand as the channel audibly clicked over. He nodded silently and lifted his chin, clasping his hands behind his back as Jim lowered himself into his desk chair, tugging ineffectively at his uniform, his expression sour.

_“Captain Kirk.”_ Komack’s voice held a hint of smugness.

     “Admiral.”

_“I have a new set of orders for you; top priority.”_ The admiral paused before continuing, _“You are to immediately divert to the Epsilon Doroni system to provide Federation representation for peace talks between the populations of planets II and IV.”_

     Jim’s focus was immediate. “That system was classified as code seven-ten as of our last briefing.”

     _“Not any more,”_ Komack replied crisply. _“A tentative agreement has been reached by both sides and we’re not taking any chances of it falling apart. Not with the dilithium resources they have, in any case.”_ He cleared his throat. _“I’ve sent along a command packet with further details.”_

     “Sir,” Jim began, “will the Federation be advancing a diplomatic delegation to—.”

     _“You_ are _the diplomatic delegation,”_ the admiral said with a silky air. _“The security situation is tenuous at best. However, your impressive credentials in this area of interspecies relations are quite well known, and you’ll be happy to have the sanctioned opportunity and excuse to be the first one off the ship.”_

     Even if Spock hadn’t been able to see the sudden tightening of Jim’s shoulders, he sensed the human’s immediate anger through their bond. He did not move, however, hearing Jim take a deep breath before responding.

     “As always, Admiral, I will fulfill my duty to the best of my ability.”

     _“Excellent.”_ Komack’s voice was oddly flat, as if he was disappointed that Jim hadn’t risen to the bait. _“Report progress to me personally.”_ The admiral’s voice grew louder, as if he was leaning toward the audio pickup. _“There’s a lot riding on the outcome of this mission, Kirk.”_

     “Understood completely, sir.” Jim’s left hand was clenched in a fist.

     The admiral grunted. “ _Good. Komack out.”_

     The channel clicked shut, and Jim scowled, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “That’s just lovely,” he said heavily. A pause, and then he punched the comm again. “Kirk to bridge.”

     _“Bridge. Tamzin, sir.”_

     “Did you send that command packet along yet?

     _“Aye, sir. I just ran it through encryption; you should have it momentarily, Captain.”_

     Jim’s computer pinged softly, a message readiness indicator flashing at the lower right.

     “I’ve got it. Inform navigation to set course to the Epsilon Doroni system and proceed at best possible speed when ready. Code seven-ten classification has been temporarily lifted. Further orders will be forthcoming.”

     _“Aye, sir.”_

     Jim finally turned, swiveling his chair to face his first officer. He shrugged. “I suppose I should’ve seen that coming.”

     “Captain?” Spock inquired, knowing that his bondmate was not referring to the Doroni system conflict.

     Jim’s face was still set in command lines, but at the sound of his title he closed his eyes briefly.

     “Exactly.” The captain sounded tired. “We’ve got to go to the bridge.”

     “Yes, sir.”

     Jim peered at him. “Are you okay to—?”

     “I have been medically cleared,” Spock replied quickly.

     Jim rubbed his knuckle over his lips. “I meant with what we—.” He trailed off, waving a hand and looking sheepish.

     “It was logical,” Spock said, allowing his impassivity to visibly soften even as the great warp engines of the _Enterprise_ roared to life, sending a minute and familiar shiver to the deck under his feet.

     “Logical?” Jim said, his eyebrows rising.

     “As you yourself stated, you are my bondmate. It is logical to continue to explore intimacy in both the mental and physical sense.”

     “How far will it go?” Jim asked, barely above a whisper.

     Spock took a small breath. He could sense that his bondmate wasn’t speaking about sex, but that his thoughts had returned to the uncertainty of those dangerous hours when Jim had fought against fear; when he had, for perhaps the first time, experienced the knife-edge of what could be. There was a distinct sense of holding on in the face of a larger current, and Spock knew that _pushing_ , as Jim had called it, remained unwise. Theirs was a complex, tangled web of connection and emotion; physical desire and mental compatibility; Vulcan and human and all the intricacies of prior experience, expectations and the rigidity of day-to-day reality. But, he wished to be honest with his bondmate, and himself, meeting Jim’s eyes directly as he answered, “I shall not resist all there is between us, Jim, or all that may evolve, given time. However, I agree with your sentiment, and Doctor McCoy’s, in that proceeding with all due deliberation is advisable.”

     Jim smiled ruefully. “Taking it slow. An easy thing to say and, it seems, a much harder thing to practice.” He shook his head slightly and stood up, lifting his chin. “Maybe this mission’ll get Komack off our backs. Or maybe it’ll begin to shake everything out.” He sighed, stretching his back, muttering almost to himself, “And we ended up on the floor again.”

     Spock lifted an eyebrow and Jim blinked at him. “Go and change; I’ll meet you up there.” The captain’s gaze dropped to Spock’s mouth before lifting again, his lips twisting in a wry, wistful smile as he offered two fingers. “On-duty intimacy?”

     Spock allowed his lips to curve slightly in response, pressing his own fingers to his bondmate’s. Jim sighed again, his fingers curling briefly around Spock’s before sliding away.

     Spock nodded and turned to take his leave, stepping through the shared bathroom and into his own quarters, content in the significant reduction of the tension from Jim’s mind and body and in the dialogue they had shared. ‘Slowly but surely’ seemed to be the order of things, for each of them, and Spock was content with that as well. Vulcan culture was neither impulsive nor brash, and measured exploration suited his own nature as well as, evidently, Jim’s. It was truly new territory for each of them, but was now unencumbered by the weighted perception of _dependence_ that had haunted Spock in the immediate aftermath of the _pon farr_.

     Indeed, dependence, with all its negative connotations, was now better described as balance, one to the other. They fit so well together, not just in personality but also in practice. This bond was defined by overwhelming mental synergy, a powerful and admittedly emotional connection and, combined with his own pronouncement of Jim as _t’hy’la_ , Spock considered that, though the ideals of present-day Vulcan were a far distant thing, more ancient myths might provide a better context. The thought appealed to him.

     As he shed his meditation robe, his thoughts shifted to their new mission. He privately doubted the probability of success; the war between the Aliz’it of the second planet of their destination system and the Ka’al’erion of the fourth planet was well into its seventieth year and had been bloody and cruel enough to keep all major interstellar interests away, even the Klingons. A truce seemed illogical based on his knowledge of the conflict, but the opportunity for peace could not be overlooked. He pulled on a fresh blue tunic, smoothing it over his chest and running a comb through his disarrayed dark hair. The taste of Jim’s mouth still lingered on his tongue and Spock allowed himself another curve of his lips before his mask descended once more.

 

 


	8. Into Uncertain Places

Chapter Eight: Into Uncertain Places

 

     “Cap’n, beggin’ yer pardon, but I cannae understan’ why we’re goin’ there in th’ firs’ place, much less allowin’ these, beggin’ yer pardon again, _ridiculous_ demands!”

     Though Mr. Scott was characteristically agitated, other officers’ expressions mirrored the engineer’s attitude, and Spock folded his hands in front of him, watching Jim glance around the briefing room table. The captain, evidently noting the rumbling but not yet openly insubordinate disapproval, replied evenly, “Scotty, your concerns are noted, but obtaining stability in the Doroni system is of the utmost importance. And our orders on this mission are clear; we can’t afford to waste this chance.”

     “Aye,” grumbled the engineer. “But I cannae help feelin’ like we’re comin’ in a’ a distinct disadvantage, sir.” He waved a hand. “Th’ deck’s been stacked.”

     “Sir,” Barry Giotto called from across the table. “Respectfully, I’m forced to agree with Commander Scott. Operational security is my responsibility and it will be nearly impossible to ensure your safety and the safety of the away team, given the conditions presented by the two governments.”

     Jim nodded at his security chief and then let his eyes travel around the table again. “I agree with you,” he said simply. “I agree that this mission is extremely dangerous and definitively lacking in proper preparation and support. We’ll be going into a largely unknown situation with no immediate reinforcements and will be initiating talks with two races who have, until now, exhibited nothing but intolerance and violence.”

     The humans at the table were exchanging concerned glances, but, as Jim leaned forward, all eyes fastened on him. The captain’s expression, posture, and mind were suddenly alight with that intensely attractive energy so unique to him and so vitalizing to those who served under him. Even now, Spock could perceive the emotional resonance of the room shift from uncertainty into anticipation and readiness. It was remarkable, sensing it this way, and Spock knew that he was projecting some of his own awe across the bond as Jim’s gaze briefly met his with the slightest softening of hazel eyes. Spock’s fingers tightened and he had to concentrate on remaining outwardly impassive. His human bondmate’s steadily improving psionic sensitivity was extraordinary.

     The captain continued, “ _However_ , I submit that ignoring this opportunity is even more dangerous. We’ve been given a chance to assist in gaining peace where for generations there’s been nothing but bloodshed. We’ll have the possibility of being able to passively oppose Klingon interests in this sector with this strategic alliance, saving Starfleet lives by avoiding outright conflict.” He smiled and lifted his chin, making an inclusive gesture with his hand. “We’ll have the opportunity to practice what we preach, which, unless I’m mistaken, is the reason all of you signed up aboard a starship in the first place.”

     Jim straightened in his chair as his words drew murmurs of agreement from around the table. The emotional fabric within the room was now infused with a new sense of purpose, and even Scott was nodding.

     The captain ordered, “We will follow their directives: the _Enterprise_ will remain at the system’s outer marker and a shuttlecraft will proceed, under escort, with myself, Mr. Spock, Yeoman Petras, and security officer Foy onboard. Negotiations will take place on the larger of the two moons of Epsilon Doroni III, on a reportedly neutral base.”

     Uhura lifted a hand. “Captain, the technology of the two factions is known to include advanced interference and signal modification techniques. You’ll be well out of transporter range while on the base, and there is the significant possibility that, in an emergency, standard communications may be rendered inoperable. Sir, I respectfully request—.”

     “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Jim interrupted gently. “But I need you here, and for that very reason. Even on the outskirts of the system, the ship may be vulnerable to an attack, either directed or as a result of continued infighting.”

     Uhura’s lips pressed together, but she nodded, replying tightly, “Yes, sir.”

     “Captain,” Giotto spoke up again, “at least let me send along more personnel.”

     “Negative,” Jim said. “Their conditions were made quite clear: only four crewmembers, including myself and Mr. Spock.”

     Seated on the other side of the captain, McCoy was scowling. “And what if they’re counting on that, Jim? Holding the captain and first officer of the flagship as hostages might change Starfleet’s negative attitude about sharing advanced technology. This could all be one big trick.”

     “We won’t be useful as hostages, Bones,” Jim replied quietly. “Admiral Komack specified that we were expendable in that regard.”

     “Convenient,” McCoy muttered dangerously. “But you yourself pointed out these beings’ propensity for violence. They could torture you for information; use you against each other. Hell, Spock probably has the entire library computer memorized.”

     Spock raised an eyebrow. “Vulcans do not succumb to such methods, Doctor.”

     “Well, humans do,” McCoy shot back, glaring at him. “Even those with command training.” He swallowed, blue eyes shining with an odd intensity. “And given that situation, I doubt you’d be able to—.”

     Jim broke in sharply, “Under no circumstances is the _Enterprise_ to engage in any action against or in support of either side. And that includes a rescue effort.” The tension in the room had abruptly returned and Spock could clearly sense his bondmate’s irritation at McCoy’s outburst.

     The Vulcan asked calmly, “Mr. Sulu, estimated time of arrival to the assigned coordinates?”

     The helmsman’s brow was furrowed, but he answered promptly. “We’ll be dropping out of warp in three point five hours, sir. The shuttlecraft is being prepped and will be ready for departure when we reach the outer marker.”

     “Good.” The captain leaned back in his chair, his eyes fastened on the doctor even as he addressed the room at large. “Any other questions or concerns?”

     Scott crossed his arms sullenly over his chest and Uhura let out a soft exhale but no one spoke. Jim nodded briskly. “Dismissed.”

     The room was filled with the sounds of chairs, shuffling PADDs, and the movement of bodies toward the door. Spock remained seated, noting that McCoy had lingered as well, the doctor’s very posture suggesting that he was not yet finished. Jim crossed his arms, waiting until the three of them were alone before jerking his chin at his friend. “Let’s have it, Doctor.”

     “Dammit, Jim, this is a suicide mission and you know it.”

     “I actually don’t know that, Bones,” commented Jim dryly. He appeared outwardly calm, belying a simmering inner tempest. Spock could sense the captain’s own carefully hidden concerns, comparable in intensity to McCoy’s but without the luxury of expression.

     The doctor slammed his fist on the table. “You damn well do! And the fact that Komack’s behind it makes it even worse!”

     Spock tilted his head. “That is a bold accusation, Doctor.”

     McCoy rolled his eyes. “Really? After what—.” His voice lowered to a hiss. “After what I told Jim?” He hesitated as a muscle in his jaw twitched. “Which I’m sure he’s told you by now.”

     Jim raised a hand. “There’s a big leap between threatening to derail our careers and using an interstellar conflict to engineer our deaths. The man’s a threat, Bones, I agree, but not in that way.”

     The doctor snorted derisively but didn’t reply, still focused on Spock. “You haven’t had much to say about this whole thing, I’ve noticed. I suppose that’s because Jim’s happily skipping over that new regulation forbidding both members of the command team on the same away party.”

     Spock replied, “Doctor, my presence was requested by both system governments, and the regulation you are referencing has been specifically voided for this particular mission by Admiral Komack.”

     “Convenient. This whole thing is just too damn convenient.” McCoy shook his head. “Why do they need both of you down there anyway?”

     Jim shrugged and held his hands out. “Maybe it has something to do with Spock’s particular expertise or maybe because he’s a Vulcan. It’s not the first time a potential ally has expressed subtle wariness regarding a primarily human crew representing a diverse body.”

     The doctor guffawed. “Right. Sure. They’ve been killing each other for generations, but they want proof that we’re tolerant and representative.”

     Jim’s hands came down on the table with a smack. “Bones, what do you want? I’ve been given direct orders and, actually, I mostly agree with them. Based on the information provided in the command packet, this is a tremendous opportunity on the level of what we achieved on Eminiar VII.”

     McCoy leaned forward. “An opportunity that once again skirts that fine line between ‘minding our own business’ and single-handed nation-building, with the risk always landing squarely on our shoulders. How many times have you and I argued about the Prime Directive?”

     Jim furrowed his brow. “This isn’t a Prime Directive case, Bones.”

   “I’m not saying it’s a Directive case, Jim, I’m just saying—.”

     Jim kept talking, “Each planet is well aware of the Federation and has been for years. We’re not interfering in the normal development of the system.”

     The doctor’s fist loudly hit the table again. “Just like Eminiar, Jim. Except in that case they told us to stay the hell out and these people are, for some _convenient_ reason, suddenly inviting us in. So, it’s not so much a question of protecting _them_ , but protecting ourselves.”

     “Doctor,” Spock began slowly, “I do not see—.”

     “Just give me a minute, Spock.” McCoy leaned toward Jim. “Eminiar is a perfect example. Those murdering bastards were perfectly willing to kill every member of your crew because a computer told them to do it. They played along like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths and you had to spin shit into gold to get things back under control.”

     Jim shook his head, rubbing a hand over his mouth as McCoy fervently continued, “We always assume that a culture’s moral compass is somehow determined by how quickly they figure out warp drive. In the case of Eminiar, and in _this_ case, it’s most definitely not and I find it very hard to believe that these people have completely changed their tune overnight!” McCoy pointed a finger fiercely at the captain. “I don’t trust them, and I damn well don’t trust the man who’s sending us in there!”

    Jim stared at his friend, repeating resignedly, “Bones, what do you want me to do?”

     The doctor’s ire suddenly seemed to deflate. “What do I want? Jim, I want to have at least one mission where I don’t have to stick my hands into your chest cavity, or Spock’s for god’s sake. Or some twenty-year-old crewmember who still has a picture of her mother in her quarters.”

     Jim said tiredly, “You can’t prevent—.”

     “You know what I mean!” the doctor interrupted sharply.

     “I do,” Jim replied soberly. “I do know, Bones.”

     The captain’s jaw tensed as he glanced over at his bondmate, the human’s thoughts swirling powerfully. The Vulcan perceived memories of sitting in the command chair as uncertainty and fear threatened; memories of hard decisions and others’ pain, of things he had no control over and _still_ others’ pain. He saw profound empathy concealed beneath the discipline of the service, and in a startlingly similar way to how Spock had withheld so much of himself under the strict conduct expected by his homeworld. Hidden selves: wrought with so much solitary pain.

     Into the strained silence, Jim said softly, “This is the job, Bones. These are the risks, and we all knew it when we signed on.”

     McCoy rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s not part of the job to have your own people looking to bring you down.”

     “Isn’t it?” Jim smiled tightly. “Millennia of Earth history would bear evidence against you.”

     “The doctor didn’t answer directly, slowly standing and allowing his arms to fall loosely at his sides as he turned an unexpectedly vulnerable expression toward the Vulcan. “Keep him safe, Spock. Because I know this is going to go bad and I’m not going to be there this time.”

     Spock met the doctor’s blue gaze unswervingly. “I shall, Doctor.”

     “I’ll hold you to that.” McCoy closed his eyes briefly and then looked at the captain. “Well, I’ve said what I needed you to hear.” He licked his lips, glancing at the floor. “I understand why you’re going, Jim, but I still don’t agree with it. Be careful. Please.”

     “I will.” Jim smiled slightly, and Spock recognized that the captain was trying to inject humor into the charged emotional atmosphere. “Spock’ll keep an eye on me, and Petras is the reigning hand-to-hand champ on the ship.”

     McCoy grunted, and even Spock could distinguish the effort behind the doctor’s faltering smile. “Alright. I’ll see you after.” He shrugged. “You, too, Spock.”

     Jim watched the doors shut behind his friend and frowned, murmuring, “What _does_ he want me to do?” He hesitated. “I’m sure that Komack would like nothing better than for me to fall on my face, but—.” He trailed off and then shook his head sharply. “No, this situation goes far beyond petty differences and ego-bruising; I have to believe that.” He met Spock’s gaze with a searching expression. “Komack’s an officer of the line and I’m risking my ship, Spock. I have to believe it.”

     Spock’s eyes did not waver. “I agree with your assessment that the admiral’s motives do not extend as far as the doctor fears. However, I cannot be certain that they do not. And the motives of our upcoming hosts are also unconfirmed. Doctor McCoy’s concerns, as emotionally and ambiguously stated as they were, are within the realm of possibility.”

   “Risk is our business,” Jim remarked.

     “I well know it,” Spock replied.

     “I know you do.” Jim smiled mildly. “I have to admit to harboring secret reassurance that you’ll be at my side for this one. For safety, of course, and strategic counsel, but also for a plain, no-frills, selfish need for your presence.” Jim’s lips quirked playfully. “How’s that for a romantic declaration?”

     “I could not begin to assess such a concept,” Spock answered archly, knowing his bondmate was teasing him. Their bond ran richly and easily between them, and Spock could feel his friend’s mind reaching out even as the captain’s hand slid along the table to where Spock’s lay, fingers brushing, touching, and then intertwining, and the Vulcan’s lips parted slightly in a gentle, pleased exhale. Such dimension, such warmth, and Spock could sense some enigmatic resolve in Jim’s mind.

     The captain’s eyes dropped briefly before lifting again, their hazel depths glinting with humor and affection. “From where I’m sitting, my friend,” Jim murmured, “I suppose it’s as romantic as we’ll ever be allowed to get.” He swallowed, pausing significantly. “I love you.”

     Spock’s lips curved slightly. “I have identified that same emotion with regard to you, Jim.”

     Jim’s eyes widened and he chuckled, his fingers tightening as he grinned. “Mr. Spock, I find that statement quite…agreeable.”

     They watched each other for a long moment, and Jim’s grin faded into seriousness as his eyes searched Spock’s. “I can feel you, more and more. It’s getting easier to reach out.” He shook his head. “Maybe a better way to put it is that it’s harder to stop myself from reaching out.” He paused, a ghost of a smile returning, the emotional dynamic of his mind thick with warmth and certainty. “So maybe I won’t stop myself.” The smile widened again. “Bondmate.”

     “ _T’hy’la_ ,” Spock said.

     The shrill sound of a shipwide hail pierced the room. “ _Captain Kirk to the bridge.”_

     Jim sighed and slowly withdrew his hand. “And, inescapably it seems, also Captain and First Officer.”

     Spock nodded. “My presence is required in the shuttlebay for a final guidance system check. I shall follow you up.”

     Jim stood, straightening his tunic. “I’ll see you on the bridge, then.” He waved a hand grandly. “’Once more unto the breach’, as it’s been said.”

     “Henry V: Act three, Scene one,” Spock recited automatically.

     Jim chuckled again. “Just another reason to bring you along, my friend.”

 

~.~

 

     “Shuttlecraft _Mary Somerville_ on approach. Confirm clearance for docking.” Jim flipped several switches on the pilot’s console as the large outer dome of the base loomed in the main viewing ports of the shuttle.

     “ _Clearance to dock in bay three-twelve is a confirmation; adjust heading eight-six-two and decelerate to await guidance beam. You are granted welcome to La’ripka moonbase_.” The clipped, androgynous reply of a translator rang starkly in the small cockpit.

     Jim glanced over at Spock before keying in the trajectory and closing out the channel, muttering, “So far, so good.”

     “Yes, Captain.” And it had been. Their trip toward the third planet of the Epsilon Doroni system had been without remarkable incident: the escorting Aliz’it gunship had kept a respectful distance and repeated scans showed no covert hostile activity in the region. They had maneuvered through several debris fields, evidence of the lasting conflict within the system, but were now approaching their destination as scheduled.

     The large bay doors yawned open in front of them, and Jim frowned and lifted his hands from the controls as the craft shuddered slightly. “Tractor beam.” He peered through the viewport, commenting, “Looks like they’re prepared for a fight.”

     As they moved into the base, gleaming gunports swung to follow their measured progress and the interior bulkheads of the dome glimmered with an obvious force field. Spock examined his instruments. “Power readings are substantial, but the system appears automated. No immediate threat detected.”

     “You mean, aside from those weapons arrays?” Jim asked grimly.

     “They are still, technically, at war, sir,” Spock reminded him softly. “Such demonstrations may be a precaution. Sensors indicate that the weapons are unarmed. We are, however, being scanned.”

     “Acknowledged.” Jim switched his screen to the rearview, watching the heavy doors slide shut behind them. “There’s also interference on our subspace bands.”

     “Perhaps another defensive measure,” Spock speculated.

     “Uhura was right about communications tampering,” Jim remarked dryly.

     The tractor beam guided them into a sleek docking port, and several seconds later a loud clicking noise was heard against the door as an external airlock was engaged. Jim unfastened his restraints and stood, Spock alongside him. From their seats at rear of the craft, Yeoman Petras and Ensign Foy stepped forward.

     “Everyone follow my lead,” Jim said firmly. “Stay alert.” He smoothed his uniform, his hands passing over the empty places where his communicator and phaser would have been. The devices were forbidden by the terms of the agreement and Spock could sense Jim’s disquiet in their absence. The captain’s outward demeanor, however, was calm, his expression deliberately confident, and any trace of his previous frown gone.

     Spock, himself also absent his tricorder, had focused his senses, his mind stretching along the bond to amplify his perception of his captain. His own body was subtly coiled, and as he stepped to the side to allow Jim to approach the shuttlecraft doors, the depth of his protectiveness struck him. He had shadowed his captain on away missions before, but this time their mutual acknowledgement of the bond and the shadows of _pon farr_ provided him a new perspective. Jim had always been his friend, whom he would die for. And now he was his bondmate, whom he would live for.

     “Scanners read acceptable external conditions, Captain,” Spock reported, confirming the readouts on the shuttlecraft’s console one final time.

     “Here we go,” Jim said, reaching out to press a sequence into the touchpad next to the exit.

     The doors slid apart, revealing a short, cylindrical tunnel opening into a brightly lit space and Spock followed his captain, hearing the measured footfalls of the junior officers behind them. Petras had been allowed a simple recording device and Spock heard her activate it as they vacated the shuttle.

     They stepped into the expansive space, devoid of decoration except for elaborate and varied light fixtures that hung from the curved ceiling and walls. The lights were obviously meant to combine functionality and artistry and bathed the area and its occupants in a steady, white glow.

     Representatives from both populated planets of the Doroni system stood in careful formation and Spock regarded them curiously. All appeared quite young, as far as he could recognize from the limited biological information included in Starfleet databanks. It was something that might be expected given the persistence of war in the system, but striking nonetheless, and Spock moved to stand just behind Jim’s right shoulder as two beings stepped forward to greet the officers.

     “Captain James Kirk I greet you with much relief you may call me Nuli Farr I am of the Aliz’it alliance.” The speaker’s words, notably lacking a translator, were strung together with no break or change in cadence, all spoken in a soft, whispering tone and accompanied by a subtle shifting in the pale gray coloration of his skin. Nuli Farr was tall, and strikingly slim in a close-fitting green suit, a set of iridescent wings folded gracefully at his back identifying him as male. Hairless, with black, pupil-less eyes, he lifted three-fingered hands in an elaborate gesture of greeting.

     “Nuli Farr, I am honored to be of service,” Jim replied evenly, returning the gesture with practiced grace.

     “And I, Captain Kirk, also greet you; not with relief as my esteemed colleague admits, but with anticipation. Far too many souls have flown apart from us in the manytime of war, and your leaders extol your abilities to compel adversaries to reach many mutual perspective.” The slightly shorter, impressively muscled being at Nuli Farr’s side peered up at the captain with an air of strong self-possession, unblinking orange eyes piercing against her translucently green skin. “I am Diriu Li’Ssuk, representing the Ka’al’erion confederation.” She, too, spoke without a translator, though, as Nuli Farr’s voice had been absent of changing tones, hers was almost musical in its variation.

     “I am honored, Diriu Li’Ssuk,” answered Jim, inclining his head to her before glancing back to his colleagues. “This is my First Officer, Commander Spock, and Yeoman Katia Petras and Ensign Hiram Foy.”

     “Ah, many yes. Commander Spock of Vulcan,” Diriu Li’Ssuk hissed, her vaguely reptilian features shifting into an expression that could have indicated either strong approval or disgust. “Pacifist.”

     Jim turned back to face her, his face holding placid lines. “Commander Spock is primarily a member of Starfleet, Diriu,” he said, using her honorific. “And we are on a mission of peace.”

     She grunted, her bluish tongue slipping out, snake-like. “Yes. Many yes.” It was a noncommittal reply, and her eyes gleamed in the bright light, her posture shifting, muscles flexing casually. Spock maintained his impassivity, aware of a slight change in the being’s scent. He decided against lowering his shields to discern her precise emotional state, however, given the number of unfamiliar minds in the room. Federation slang dismissively referred to this war as a ‘skirmish between mosquitoes and snakes’, implying that each side was a distasteful pest in its own right. It was logical that the Aliz’it and the Ka’al’erion had their own perceptions of the Federation member worlds, and to hear Vulcan singled out could be either a clue or a warning.

     Nuli Farr shifted, his eyes blinking rapidly and his skin tone undulating as if in response to the cryptic exchange. “We go now into the negotiations for peace.” He hesitated. “We have a large complement of technology to confirm it is necessary for negotiations if it is verified by an expert that is why Commander Spock was requested may he accompany our people to the computational center now.”

     “I would prefer to keep my crewmembers together.” Jim was smiling pleasantly, but Spock could sense the captain’s internal tension increase sharply.

     “This verification is our government’s wish as well, Captain James Kirk,” Diriu Li’Ssuk added smoothly. “Accounting of operational technology is many important and can be begun while making many preliminary pleasantries.”

     Spock lifted his chin. “Such an accounting most likely will take much longer than that, Diriu. However, if it has been deemed necessary, and my captain agrees, I would be honored to fulfill that responsibility.”

     Nuli Farr’s skin was nearly flashing, but his voice was as uninflected as ever. “Captain Kirk to you agree then Commander Spock will depart he will not need to leave this base we have prepared the information and data.”

   Jim’s apprehension was nearly palpable, straining Spock’s shields from the inside, but the captain betrayed none of it in his voice. “Then it is agreed. Will I be allowed contact with my officer during negotiations, if necessary?”

     “You need only ask, Captain James Kirk,” Diriu Li’Ssuk answered, her fiery stare lingering on Spock.

     Jim turned, meeting Spock’s gaze meaningfully. “Go ahead, Commander. I’ll see you after.” Jim’s mind was reaching now, stretching along the bond with almost Vulcan ability and unique human determination, and Spock sensed something collapse between them: a breakdown of barriers that caused their connection to seem almost raw in its depth.

     Jim’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright, the bond clearly transmitting his reluctance for their separation, and Spock couldn’t help biting his lower lip as two Ka’al’erion and two Aliz’it moved forward, evidently to escort him to the computational center. Nuli Farr made another grandiose gesture toward the captain and the two other officers.

     Spock turned to follow his guides to a set of doors barely visible in the smooth, curved wall, hearing his companions led in the opposite direction, and he repressed his own surge of irritation and anxiousness in his captain’s increasing distance. Vulcans may be pacifists by philosophy and practice, but a threat to the life of a bondmate would strike to a place untouchable by logic, where philosophy held no sway. It was a place with which he was intimately familiar, given his recent experience, and, as the doors shut definitively behind him, Spock concentrated forcefully on the connection that bound his mind to Jim’s, seeking balance once more.

 

 


	9. Non Sequitur

Chapter Nine: Non Sequitur

 

     “Are you a warrior?”

     Spock paused the scrolling readouts on the screens in front of him, lifting his eyes to meet the brilliant ochre gaze of Consiu Jhi’zha, one of the Ka’al’erion technicians. Her bluish tongue protruded slightly from her mouth, indicating curiosity. Beside her, arrayed along the walls of the small room, several other aliens, Aliz’it and Ka’al’erion both, were obviously listening. Jhi’zha’s command of Standard was nearly as accomplished as Li’Ssuk’s had been, a fact that was curious, to say the least, for this largely sequestered and embattled population.

     Spock leaned back in his chair, raising his voice to include the onlookers, speaking slowly and carefully. “I am a scientist and an explorer but am also trained in the tactical and martial arts.” He watched their overt reactions. It was most interesting to note the ways that the two cultures displayed their emotional shifts: the Ka’al’erion exhibited detectably changing scent-pheromones and the Aliz’it displayed undulating skin coloration. It was a striking contrast to the human norms of constantly shifting facial expression and gesticulation.

     “In our world to be warrior is paramount one cannot be anything without demonstrating ability to fight,” said Hini Tai, a smaller Aliz’it female, the shifting hues of her flesh adding emotional nuance to her flat phrasing.

     Spock looked at her, observing the way her gossamer wings, smaller than the males of her species, swayed in the minute air currents within the bright room. Her long-fingered hands were tipped with formidable talons, her eyes black and fathomless. The Vulcan tilted his head. “We consider violence to be a last resort; however, martial training can be utilized to inculcate discipline and physical and mental fortitude.”

     Jhi’zha let out a hissing noise. “We have many wondered how Vulcans achieve many status in Federation, with pacifist philosophy.” Her tongue flicked out. “And you are an result of more than that, are you not, Commander Spock?” She gestured vaguely, her facial muscles tightening under patterned green skin. “A unique partnership between species?”

     Spock noted the hesitantly eager movements shared by all of the beings in the room as they shifted subtly toward him, obviously most interested in his response. It was not a threatening motion, but it did hold some nuance of heightened emotion, as much as Spock could peripherally discern without completely lowering his mental shields.

     The Ka’al’erion’s question evidently held a strong significance, and the Vulcan cautiously inferred her meaning. “You are referring to my hybrid ancestry?”

     “Many yes,” Jhi’zha said, her scent changing slightly. “Vulcan and human.” The others in the room made small noises: grunts and hisses that could have signaled affirmation.

     Spock lifted an eyebrow as a potent silence followed. Though Starfleet held his personal information as confidential, his family was prominent and his position as First Officer aboard the flagship did not lend itself to secrecy. He was uncertain as to what was hidden within their specific curiosity and the unspoken, complex emotional fabric surrounding it, but the Vulcan did not press. It was somewhat unethical to telepathically investigate further, foremost, but also a potential danger to himself and to Jim, through the bond. While neither of the two races possessed psi-sensitivity, their emotions were dynamic and unfamiliar and, unshielded, could be potentially damaging, given a lack of adequate preparation on Spock’s part.

     “I do share human and Vulcan ancestry,” he replied finally. “But perhaps of greater significance is my role on the _Enterprise_.”

     “Yes you are one of few non-humans in Starfleet.” Hini Tai’s skin flashed another bright color, vibrant under the relentless white lights of the room. “Also a unique partnership.”

     “Forgive me,” Spock began, “but I do not understand this personal line of inquiry within the context of my present task, or with regard to broader negotiations.”

     Jhi’zha hissed again. “Many losses and many hate. Many years.” She grunted, baring sharp teeth. “Do not many fundamental differences remain? The question is relevant. Are you human or Vulcan?”

     Spock hesitated before giving a response, knowing that his honest answer would be heavily weighted by recent experience. He could not dismiss the echoes of T’Pau’s leading question within the alien’s words. That question: posed during the _kalifee_ , during the depths of his _plak tow_ , was meant to chastise and to shame him. Spock may have revealed too much with his painfully wrought answer, but T’Pau had also revealed more than intended, demonstrating the cutting and well-hidden blade of Vulcan prejudice.

     “I am both human and Vulcan,” Spock began. “The Federation has found harmony in encouraging cooperation and understanding while acknowledging and celebrating diversity.” He paused, also unable to ignore the startling new perspective that had been gained through his bond with Jim. At this moment, it seemed quite logical to enunciate it; it also felt, as humans would say, _right._ “Interaction among cultures, even widely disparate ones, should not preclude dynamic evolution, and neither should it require negation and blind assimilation.”

     Thoughts of Jim impelled another mental probe along their bond. Spock sensed focused concentration, vague confusion and a hint of wariness from the captain. As the group of aliens surrounding him suddenly began chattering loudly amongst each other, speaking with distinct camaraderie, Spock could well understand his bondmate’s emotional state. This did not seem like a war and these people did not seem to be combatants. He understood that appearances could be deceiving, but interactions thus far went well beyond even the tightly polite discourse of determined diplomats.

     He cleared his throat and waited until silence reigned again. “May I ask a question?”

     “Yes. Please, Commander Spock,” Jhi’zha replied immediately, her large eyes focusing on him.

     “In my experience,” Spock said circumspectly, “members of warring civilizations do not typically exhibit such ease of collaboration amongst each other.”

     The response was immediate, and this time Spock allowed his shields to weaken slightly in order to sample the emotional landscape: _humor_ , they were laughing, all of them. The Aliz’it made a low, buzzing noise, and the Ka’al’erion chortled, revealing predator’s teeth. Spock lifted his chin. “I beg your pardon for any offense.”

     “No offense,” Hini Tai replied smoothly, her wings fluttering. She lifted a slender limb and brushed Jhi’zha’s arm in a gentle, familiar motion. “Much communication was done on social channels with true identity hidden from those who—.” She stopped abruptly, her skin shifting into a near-white translucence.

     The room had gone silent again, but this time the atmosphere was vastly different, charged not by humor or solidarity, but by something more like fear. Jhi’zha finally spoke haltingly, a meaty hand placed on Hini Tai’s slender shoulder. “We are many young; that is no surprise. But we have seen many deaths. We saw the war as,” she hissed loudly, “final straw? Is correct usage? We deferred no longer in order to preserve life. To preserve what we see as of many importance.”

     “I see.” Spock placed his hands on his knees in a deliberately non-aggressive movement. He sensed that this topic, like their inquiries as to his hybrid nature, was of definite significance to them and to the proceedings at large. He listened intently as Jhi’zha continued speaking.

     “We wished to meet you, who are an example of what many fear. Many say that peace leads to weakness and corruption and impurity. But you are not weak. You hold a rank on a warship and your commander holds you in high regard; this we can see. Many say that peace leads to dangerous mixing. You do not diminish either ancestry.” Jhi’zha broke off and murmured something in her native language to Hini Tai, the hissing grunts punctuated by sharp shifts in the Aliz’it’s skin tones.

     Hini Tai turned back to Spock in a slippery motion, black eyes impenetrable, her skin flashing, displaying evidently visceral emotion. “We have only known false idealism and been told mixing and peace was impossible leading to treasonous death and now we know the truth.”

     From the far right side of the room, another Ka’al’erion, a male introduced as Ighuf’er, hissed loudly, moving forward with a series of loud grunts. The two females immediately fell silent and the others shifted in what appeared to be nervousness. The scent of the Ka’al’erion had changed demonstrably, filling the room with a subtle musk, and Spock did not move. This was not the situation that Starfleet had anticipated; it seemed to be far different than anything included in the briefing materials or, indeed, anything he had been able to personally research. What had been said and displayed in this room flew against all prior understanding of the nature of relations between these two species. Logically, that implied significant missing information or deliberate obfuscation.

     Jhi’zha finally spoke, huffing tightly, “Please, Commander Spock, continue with many examination of technical data.”

     The Vulcan inclined his head without question, unwilling to engage further in the face of the aliens’ obvious defensive reluctance and without his captain’s presence and counsel. As he pressed the control to continue scrolling the data, though, Spock allowed his shields to weaken even further. There was no hostility from any of them, but there was fear, now, and the deeper places shone brightly with an identifiable, familiar emotion. Spock had sensed it before, most intimately in the mind of his bondmate. However presently flavored with alien energy, the Vulcan recognized rebellious, unquenchable hope shared amongst all of them. And he was left to ponder, in the overly brilliant light and taut silence, why these people held such defiance in the face of apparently workable peace.

 

~.~

 

     Much later, preceded by two Aliz’it and Ighuf’er, Spock walked down an arched, curving hallway, generously lit by a continuous, artful fixture along the ceiling. The air here was fresh and slightly chilled, absent the singular pervasive scent that had only compounded in the small, closed computational center. It had not been unpleasant, but had only served to reinforce Spock’s perception of growing uneasiness among their hosts. The Vulcan had sensed his bondmate’s growing tension as well, imbued by puzzlement and, as the negotiation session had evidently ended, energized by a strong desire for Spock’s company. The clarity of their connection was ever increasing, and Spock could only speculate that it was a consequence of both his own protective concentration and Jim’s conscious focus. Spock recalled Jim’s comment about _reaching out_ ; evidently the human was proving to be as inherently talented at this as he was in other things. The befuddling, uncertain situation and their unexpected separation were perhaps responsible as well. Even now Spock could sense his captain’s proximity and suppressed a strong sense of anticipation before it could manifest on his features.

     The three aliens stopped in front of a doorway and Ighuf’er grunted softly. “Please remain here during the recess, Commander Spock. You will find many refreshment as well as a place to rest.” Ighuf’er grunted softly. “We will return in six cycles to resume negotiations.” The Ka’al’erion raised a hand, his blunt fingers opening and closing in a deliberate gesture. “Many gratitude for your candor. Many…too much has been lost to war and we must…take measures to ensure it does not continue.”

     “Indeed,” Spock replied evenly. He waited for the Ka’al’erion to say more, perhaps to expand on its cryptic statement, but Ighuf’er only grunted again more forcefully, shaking himself, his greenish skin rippling over his muscular torso. His scent was subtle, and different again to what Spock had experienced during the many hours spent in the computational center.

     The stocky alien pressed an access panel, gesturing the Vulcan forward, repeating, “We will return in six cycles. Your commander and companions are waiting.”

     Spock stepped in as the door slid open and then smoothly shut, separating him from the aliens. Jim, Petras, and Foy were already there, standing in a central area next to a table covered with unfamiliar food and drink. Four open doorways were visible off to the sides, connected to the main room, and, as he walked forward, Spock glanced through one portal to see a compact space containing what appeared to be a plain pallet and what he recognized as a sink and toilet. The simple decoration in the chamber was similar to the rest of the moonbase: decorative and functional light fixtures casting a strong illumination over curving surfaces and clean lines: definitively neutral.

     Spock felt a strong pulse of human relief and affection across the bond as Jim’s gaze found his. Hazel eyes softened as they flicked up and down, carefully taking the Vulcan in, and broad shoulders fell slightly in a barely perceptible exhale as the captain nodded slowly. “Good to see you, Mr. Spock.”

     “Thank you, Captain,” Spock replied, clasping his hands behind his back. The impulse to touch was strong, though manageable, and as the Vulcan saw his bondmate mimic his gesture, he sensed that Jim was also struggling.

     “We’ve only just been brought here ourselves.” Jim’s eyes betrayed a unique intensity that was mirrored over their mental connection, but his body language and expression were carefully detached. “They allowed a brief message to be sent to the ship and Foy’s checked the rooms over; it looks like we’re on our own for a few hours, at least.” The captain nodded slightly as he turned to the younger officers, evidently continuing a conversation that had begun before Spock had entered. “So, a session of good, fruitful negotiation and measureable progress. Opinions?”

     Petras spoke first, vehemently. “My opinion, sir, is that something isn’t quite adding up here.”

     Jim’s gaze shifted between Petras and Foy. “Explain.”

     “Well, Captain,” she said, “I’ve been present at several negotiation tables over my years in the service, both in the merchant fleet and then in my present position, and in none of those experiences have the warring parties seemed so willing to compromise in order to reach an agreement.”

     Jim’s eyes lifted to Spock’s momentarily as the yeoman continued, “Given what we know about the two cultures, it just doesn’t make sense. Neither is predisposed to peace, in fact, quite the opposite. This latest and most extensive period of war is merely the most recent in a string of conflicts dating back to first contact between the two civilizations.” She paused. “I believe something else is going on here, sir.”

     Foy nodded eagerly, leaning forward. “I agree with Petras, Captain. And the level of security here is shockingly minimal, in my opinion. We’ve agreed to go along with their requests in terms of equipment and ship support, but they’ve allowed us considerable leeway once here.” He gestured around the small room. “We should be under surveillance, but I wasn’t able to find anything and, honestly, my intuition doubts it.” He shrugged. “My opinion is: either _these_ people aren’t very experienced in these matters or they’re rushing things for some reason, or—.” He trailed off.

     “Or?” Jim pressed.

     Foy’s lips tightened. “Or, they don’t see this negotiation as being anything aside from some kind of sideshow, sir.”

     Jim nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. “Analysis, Ms. Petras. Danger to us?”

     Petras slowly shook her head, her dark hair sliding over her shoulders. “None so far, sir. And I second Ensign Foy’s report. We haven’t seen any of these people carrying weapons or conducting security patrols. Aside from the base defenses, which are formidable, this whole situation seems completely and oddly separate from what I had expected given the briefing sent by Command.”

     Foy nodded again in agreement and Jim looked at Spock, prompting, “What did you find, Mr. Spock?”

     Spock tilted his head thoughtfully. “To my approximation, Captain, I have examined only three percent of the available data files. The effort itself appears cursory at best, as most of the information is yet un-translated and I was not provided with suitable equipment to fully interpret it myself. And, given a lack of observational evidence or the opportunity for independent scans, none of the information is truly verifiable.”

     Jim’s brow furrowed and he grunted softly. “So, the accounting they’re having you do might also be a diversion of some sort.”

     “Possibly, sir,” Spock replied. “I believe there was another reason for my separation.”

     “Go on,” Jim said.

     Spock tilted his head. “The personnel in the computational center were, from both cultures, uniformly very young and quite outspoken.” He raised his eyebrows. “They were most curious about my personal experience as a Starfleet officer and my genetic history, as well as my opinion on the state of cooperation found among different cultures within the Federation.”

     Jim leaned subtly toward him. “So they wanted an unforced perspective from you in particular. Interesting.”

   “Indeed, sir. Additionally, these members of the two species appear to work seamlessly together and to agree on matters of fundamental ideology.” He inclined his head. “Most unexpected to say the least, for beings who have been at war for multiple generations.”

     “Or maybe not,” the captain said suddenly. “One of the members of the Ka’al’erion delegation told me something during a break.” The captain briefly closed his eyes. “He said, ‘War has been our grandparents’ culture, and our parents’. We who are maturing wish for something different. The conflict has grown tired and so have our foremothers. We are not tired, and now we are being heard’, or something along those lines.” Jim opened his eyes again. “All the representatives here do appear very young. A generationally-based coup?”

     Spock slowly stepped forward, bringing his hands to steeple in front of him. “According to the data I was able to analyze, recorded inventories show a recent shift toward police control measures as opposed to interstellar-class weaponry, perhaps suggesting growing civil unrest on both planets.”

     Jim rubbed a hand over his chin. “If the youth of both sides gained enough control and communication to begin to direct their cultures toward peace, the question remains—.”

     Spock finished, “Where is the establishment from which power has been wrested?”

     Jim looked at him. “Where indeed.” His lips tightened. “And that leads to that other important question.” He nodded to Yeoman Petras.

     She exhaled, exchanging a worried glance with Foy. “How legitimate these negotiations truly are.”

     “Exactly.” The captain’s eyes narrowed as Spock felt his bondmate’s mind race again. “Alright. Let’s see where the next session goes. Ms. Petras, Mr. Foy, continue as we have been, but if an opportunity presents itself, we’ll explore what they’re willing to openly talk about.”

   The two younger officers nodded.

     “We’ve still got a mission,” Jim said firmly. “Eat something and try to get some rest before we get called in again.”

     Petras and Foy nodded and shifted tiredly, moving toward the laden table as the captain added quietly, “Mr. Spock, a word in private, please?”

     “Yes, Captain.” Spock followed his bondmate through one of the open doorways, moving past him and waiting until Jim had keyed the door shut.

     Jim turned, speaking quietly but rapidly, “I could feel your shields weakening while you were in there. What happened?”

     Spock raised an eyebrow. “That is most remarkable.”

     “What happened?” Jim insisted, moving closer.

     “It was a deliberate action, Jim. I wished to sample the emotions of those present.”

     “Are you alright?”

     “My mental shields did not fall completely.” Spock saw Jim’s mouth tighten and added, “I am well, Jim.”

     Jim nodded, running a hand through his hair. “I thought so, but I had to check.” He swallowed. “What did you sense? I couldn’t feel that much.”

     Spock could not look away from his bondmate’s hazel eyes. “I sensed some degree of fear. And hope.”

     “Shit.” Jim’s jaw muscles shifted.

     “I believe there is considerably more political complexity here than has been revealed thus far.”

     Jim glanced away, his eyes darting back and forth. Tension suffused the bond. “There’s nothing conclusive, but—.” He frowned. “Maybe this is why they ordered such restrictions and specified that the _Enterprise_ remain on the system boundary. To keep news of our arrival and participation secret from other, perhaps more authentic, representatives.”

     “Authentic might be a difficult term, Jim, considering that recent cessation of violence and the almost assuredly volatile state of political power.”

     Jim grunted and Spock continued, “The fighting has stopped. Preliminary long-range scans indicated that much.”

     “Yes.” Jim sighed. “It has stopped, but for how long? We need the ship’s scanners to run a more detailed evaluation of the system.”

     “Accessing our scanners is unlikely, Captain.”

     “I know it. Security might be lax, according to Foy, but that message they allowed me to send was wholly supervised and I was unable to verify that it was even received.” Jim took another step closer to the Vulcan. “Is there any kind of instrumentation in that computational center that you could use?”

     “Negative, Captain; it appeared to be solely a data repository or a library of sorts. In addition, my actions are scrutinized quite closely.”

     “It looks like any information we’re going to get is from the people themselves, then, and they don’t seem inclined to be entirely forthcoming.” Jim raised his eyebrows. “Unless we can get back to the shuttlecraft and bypass the communications interference?”

     “Also unlikely, Captain.” Spock inclined his chin. “However, a directed query regarding the larger situation would be appropriate and may be useful. Given the representatives’ attitude toward achieving peace, the sympathies of the Federation could only aid their cause. Transparency would be in their best interests.”

     Jim shrugged, visibly agitated. “That’s true; if they have Federation support, they’d be in a very strong position, even if their coup was ultimately less than successful. And that’s what worries me. They might have engineered this entire negotiation in order to gain a Fleet presence. They’ve certainly been going out of their way to accommodate us now that we’re here, and yet keeping us as quiet as possible.”

     Anger and frustration suddenly blistered along the bond and the captain slammed a fist into his open palm. “We’re blind and deaf here. There could be an entire armada outside this base and we wouldn’t know it until the torpedoes started detonating. And then there’s the _Enterprise_ somewhere out there—.” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “I’m beginning to think I should have listened to Scotty and Bones and told Komack to stuff it.”

     Spock watched him. “There is much ambiguity here, but no evidence for an immediate threat to us, or the ship. Our orders are clear, and the interactions we have experienced already with these two cultures have been most significant. As you yourself have stated, ignoring this opportunity may have been even more dangerous.”

     Jim looked at him, his expression softening. “I suppose.” His shoulders slumped slightly, anger dissipating into a low anxious hum. He rubbed at his eyes. “I’m tired. It was intense in there and those lights get to me after a while.” He waved a hand at the ceiling. “We should have brought along some polarized lenses.”

     “I shall allow you to rest, Jim,” Spock replied quietly. He turned toward the door, stopping as Jim’s hand gently gripped his wrist, cool fingers sliding over his skin. Their connection shone suddenly with the longed-for contact and Spock almost unconsciously moved closer as the human’s grip tightened, angling his body back toward his bondmate.

     “You seemed surprised that I could feel what was happening with your shields,” the captain murmured.

     “I am…concerned,” Spock corrected, drawing a small smile from Jim. “I would not have predicted it. Your sensitivity precludes my attempting such deliberate exposure again.”

     Jim’s eyes were half-lidded. “I couldn’t feel much.” His eyebrow quirked as the edge of his mouth tilted up. “Our separation was an unexpected problem; I’m glad we figured a way around it.”

     Spock felt his body relax as he breathed in his bondmate’s familiar scent. “I am acquainted with your predilection for escaping seemingly impossible situations, Jim.” He exhaled. “Emotionally characterized by such as I sensed from Aliz’it and Ka’al’erion earlier.”

     “You think they believe they’re facing an impossible situation?” Jim asked.

     “I cannot be certain of its impossibility, but all evidence suggests, at the least, a complex one.”

     Jim hummed and then tilted his head. “When we get home—.” He trailed off, fleeting vulnerability flashing through his eyes.

     Spock reached out, tracing a delicate path across his bondmate’s cheekbone and temple, fingertips brushing into light brown hair, the psionic wash making his senses sing. A meld would be unadvisable here, but he could not suppress his desire for it. Indeed, he did not wish to suppress his desire for it, knowing that his bondmate could feel his longing and would understand it as love. “Home is defined by your presence, Jim.”

     A soft smile reappeared and lingered on Jim’s lips as he leaned into the caress. “Why, Mr. Spock. I believe that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

     Spock lifted an eyebrow, allowing his fingers to continue to slide through his bondmate’s hair. “Conventional romantic expressions are replete with undue emotion.”

     Humor whispered along the bond with Jim’s warm pleasure at their banter, a respite from the tension and uncertainty surrounding them. “Are you saying this one isn’t?”

     Spock allowed the smallest of smiles to appear. “I believe that any emotion conveyed, in this case, is quite logical.”

     “Misdirection?” Jim asked playfully.

     “Clarification,” Spock amended evenly.

     Jim hummed again, leaning forward, his hand sliding from Spock’s wrist to entwine their fingers. “In that case, my friend, I believe that your quite logical emotions are indeed reciprocated.”

     “That is most…agreeable.” Spock closed the distance between them, his hand cradling the back of Jim’s head as their lips met. For a moment, as their mouths moved sensually against each other, coherent thought itself seemed a distant concern and Spock lost himself yet again within this human. The bond was encompassing and brilliant and the meld called to him, the deepest joining beckoning. And he, who sought always to be his captain’s strength and protection, was forced to rely on Jim to pull them back, to slowly and reluctantly separate them. When they were apart, Spock held to the bond to center himself once more, knowing that his open expression betrayed him, that the small, defiant motion of his body toward Jim betrayed him.

     Perhaps _betrayal_ was no longer the correct word for what this was. Jim’s face was creased in a dazzling grin, confirming that those would-be shameful indications were indeed understood as _love_ , and Spock’s own smile helplessly returned. Jim chuckled softly, stepping back and shaking his head, his voice slightly hoarse. “Now get out of here, Mr. Spock, before I do something that’s completely against regulations in a security situation and with two junior officers just outside that door.”

     “Aye, sir.” Spock’s smile remained as he turned, and, as he exited out into the main room he was pleased to note that said junior officers had already retired, as he was quite helpless to suppress his emotions at this time.

 

 


	10. Yuk-eshu'a

Chapter Ten: Yuk-eshu’a

 

     Hours of meditation had succeeded in returning Spock’s elusive control, enabling external impassivity. The mental bond with his _t’hy’la_ was readily incorporated, accommodating of Spock’s more _human_ inclinations to attend to it; though he could sense Jim more clearly than ever before, their connection was neither distracting nor disruptive. Spock hypothesized that this could be due to their brief but reassuring physical expression of intimacy or to the actively seeking awareness of each other’s minds belying any distance between them. Whether it was for comfort or strength or simple forthright affection, Jim’s mind was open, deliberately and eagerly, to Spock’s, and though the very presence of the bright, bright warmth of the human’s thoughts and emotions was meaningful, the acknowledgement of that mutual need and honest offering was more significant.

     Spock smoothed the front of his blue tunic, stepping out of his appointed room and into the common area. The captain was already there, holding a cup of one of the proffered beverages. Jim’s expression was stern, perhaps in deference to the two younger officers standing near the refreshment table, but his hazel eyes were gentle as he regarded his first officer.

     “Were you able to sleep, Mr. Spock?” Jim asked, the bond transmitting a solicitousness that was completely absent in his voice.

     “Unnecessary, Captain. I spent the time in meditation,” Spock replied, clasping his hands behind his back. Despite his control, he was unable to avoid biting his lower lip, his eidetic memory recalling immediately the taste of his bondmate.

     Jim flashed the barest of knowing smiles and then turned to Yeoman Petras, his chin making a jerking motion toward the door. “That announcement said fifteen minutes.”

     She nodded, replying, “It’s just coming up on that now, Captain. I’d expect them to be prompt; considering the amenities here, they’re obviously familiar with Federation standard protocols.”

     Jim hummed, nodding thoughtfully. Spock concurred; their hosts had provided toiletries and facilities well in line with conventional human and humanoid requirements: a diplomatic convenience perhaps, but most definitely yet another example of the misalignment of their previous conceptions.

     Foy was fidgeting, his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest, brow furrowed. Jim took a calm sip of his beverage and tilted his head, prompting, “Ensign?”

     The young man’s slight frown deepened. “I don’t know, Captain. I’ve still got a bad feeling about all this.”

     Jim lowered the cup, glancing at Spock. “I understand, Mr. Foy; as we discussed a few hours ago, I—.”

     “Sir!” Foy interrupted, his cheeks reddening as he realized his error. “I apologize, Captain, but in Security we’re always told to trust our gut instinct.” He winced, but stood his ground, his hands falling to his sides as he came to attention.

     Next to him, Petras shook her head, her lips tightening disapprovingly, but Jim took a step toward the younger man. “I hear you, Ensign.” He shrugged slightly. “Not ignoring one’s gut feeling is something also emphasized on the command track.” He glanced again at Spock, a playful glint in his eyes. “And occasionally, it’s well worth the embarrassment of admitting to it.”

     Spock inclined his head. “The concept of human intuition has been hypothesized to be the result of integrated subconscious analysis of detailed information within the environment and personal interactions, often pertaining to an individual’s particular expertise. It should therefore not be dismissed, especially when enunciated by a security specialist.”

     Jim’s eyes widened, but he stopped his mental surge of astonishment and near-glee before it reached his expression. Foy, on the other hand, was staring in open awe.

     “Thank you, Commander,” he said solemnly.

     Jim shook his head incredulously. “There you have it, Ensign. Use it as a guide. And,” he included Petras and Spock, “all of you remember what we talked about. We’re going to proceed as planned, but if the chance arises to get some more direct answers, I’ll want to take it. And—.”

     The soft sound of a buzzer interrupted him, and Spock had only time to turn to face the doorway before the panel slid open, admitting Ighuf’er and the slender figure of Hini Tai.

     “Captain Kirk you will accompany Ighuf’er to the negotiations Commander Spock will accompany myself to the computational center.” Hini Tai’s skin tone was a carefully muted gray, her delicate wings swaying in the minute air currents streaming from the hallway into the suite.

     “Of course,” Jim replied immediately. His eyes found his bondmate’s. “Good luck, Mr. Spock. I’ll see you after?”

     “Indeed, Captain. I shall see you after.” To the observer their exchange was benign, but the bond was tightly strung. Jim’s mind flew, and while Spock couldn’t decipher individual thoughts, he sensed a strong disinclination for another separation, particularly after Foy’s vague warning. Spock knew that the captain did not normally subscribe to premonition, but in a charged situation, Jim would take any kind of advantage he could. The Vulcan was aware that his bondmate’s brilliant flashes of command genius have been interpreted as extra-sensory perception at its most practical.

     Ighuf’er grunted, his yellow eyes bright, thin lips drawn over sharp teeth, holding out his hand in a very human gesture toward Jim and the two younger officers. Spock saw Foy’s expression harden into a mask of professionalism and Petras stepped forward, each on either side of their captain. Spock watched them leave, exerting his own firm mental discipline to suppress a more primitive impulse to be the one standing protectively at his bondmate’s side.

   Hini Tai, however, hesitated, and Spock tilted his head as she let out a soft clicking noise.

     “Shall we proceed?” he asked calmly.

     “Yes we will proceed I apologize I wish to ask another personal question.” Her skin tones had shifted into a liquid pink, and with the captain’s absence from Spock’s immediate proximity, he could now detect a low note of tension in her emotional bearing. It glimmered against his shields, and he could now decipher other indications: the tautness of her skin over her face, the more horizontal set of her wings, and the hunched appearance of her shoulders.

     Spock blinked. “I will answer your query, if I am able.”

     She shifted from one foot to the other in a rolling motion. “Hybrid beings are universally accepted by the Federation yes.”

     “Yes,” Spock replied carefully, remembering a similar line of inquiry from the day before. Obviously a most significant topic, and it partly explained the insistence on his presence here.

     “And if asylum is sought by those—.” Her steadily whispered monotone broke off into a series of soft buzzing noises, red tones flashing brightly along her exposed arms. “Difficulty to enunciate no translation.” Her mouth twitched and her shoulders slumped. “I shall elaborate but with the presence of the others in the computational center for appropriate translation.”

     Spock lifted a hand as she began to turn away. “My captain should also be present,” he said, “for a discussion of such importance.”

     Black eyes bore into him. “Negative we wish to speak to you firstly then your commander will be notified.” Now, she moved with renewed quickness and determination toward the open door, and Spock had no choice but to follow her.

     The curving hallway was empty and thick with silence. Hini Tai moved rapidly, as if simply trusting him to match her pace, and Spock allowed his thoughts to stretch along the bond, picking up Jim’s active mind. There was no indication of immediate distress; instead the Vulcan interpreted human optimism and even excitement. Perhaps the time for answers was at hand and the previous day’s events had been a test or evaluation of some sort. Spock pressed his lips together, aware that he, of late, had fallen into the illogical habit of speculation.

     Hini Tai glanced back at him smoothly as they moved through the vaulted area where they had first disembarked from the shuttle, her skin tone returned to pale gray under the intense lights. Spock waited until she had faced forward again before cautioning his own glance toward the airlock where their shuttle had docked. No guards were stationed there, and, similarly, none were present at the arched mouth of the other hallway where Jim and the others had been escorted for the initial negotiation session.

     The computational center’s familiar door slid open smoothly, and Spock deliberately did not react as his sensitive nostrils were assailed by the potent scent of the Ka’al’erion. The room was crowded with the youthful members of both species, perhaps explaining the lack of personnel in the common areas, and Hini Tai moved immediately to Consiu Jhi’zha’s side as Spock stopped just inside the door.

     Hini Tai’s wings fluttered. “I have broached the topic of Federation asylum.”

     Jhi’zha hissed loudly in the resultant charged silence. “The Federation will many accept?”

     Spock lifted an eyebrow, letting his hands fall loosely to his sides, speaking up definitively, “My apologies, but the specifics of such a request have not been conveyed to me.”

     Hini Tai made a soft clicking noise and Jhi’zha’s muscles flexed. “Direct translation of Aliz’it requires many understanding of dermal pigmentation dynamics. Likely the meaning was obscured.” She moved forward as a low buzz echoed around the room. “I will elaborate, however,” her eyes narrowed, “you are confused as to why we would wish to inquire about asylum given our present position.”

     Spock replied mildly, “Indeed.”

     She bared her teeth. “It is not surprising, but you will understand our reasoning. It is for the future of our peoples that we take this many risk.”

     Spock waited, as the other beings in the room seemed to take a collective breath. Jhi’zha’s expression and scent shifted. “We are not rebellion, Commander Spock, but justice. We took what was owed us, what had been desecrated. Our generation being destroyed because of greed and corruption and many bigotry. Because of—.”

     Her growling voice cut off abruptly as an orange panel on the curved wall began flashing and the door slid shut immediately behind Spock. The room erupted into a cacophony of voices and movement and Spock sensed Jim’s thoughts changing, emotion flashing and sparking bright colors along their bond. Distracted, he felt something cold trickle down his spine and recognized it as originating from his bondmate: human intuition? Was this what it felt like? It expanded, accompanied by something else: something that was also growing, insidiously, and was completely alien. He dared to lower his shields minutely, struggling to identify it.

   The room roiled with breathless near panic. Jhi’zha had turned to the consoles, breaking from the rapid hisses and grunts of her native language to shout back over her shoulder to Spock. “Automatic alert system has been triggered. Many threat!”

     Another Ka’al’erion, standing at another of the high terminals against the far wall, turned his head in a swift, serpent-like motion. “Anomalous energy reading identified at the many limit of instrumentation. Increasing in power, source difficult to determine. All security systems enabled to no effect.”

     The alien energy pulsed ever stronger; pressing uncomfortably against the Vulcan’s deliberately weakened mental shields in a way that sparked immediate and terrible recognition. _Eshak_ : mental attack, the killing gift! But this did not hold the shifting nuances and emotional burden of a living mind; it was relentless, constant, and steadily intensifying. The buzzing and grunting had escalated into pained shouts and screams. Spock yelled over the din, “This base is under a psionic attack! Issue an evacuation order!” He cast a mental call across the bond, an urgent warning to his bondmate: _Jim!_ He spun toward the door but it didn’t open, and he called out to Jhi’zha, “Release the lock!”

     The others in the room were now clutching at their heads, shrieking, the sharp scent of the terrified Ka’al’erion pervading the air. Jhi’zha stared at Spock, her eyes bulging wide with confusion and pain, her hands scrabbling over the console before she fell next to Hini Tai’s collapsed body. Everything was rapidly devolving chaos, the mental wash overwhelming, and Spock knew that it might already be too late as he plunged through the slowly opening doors and out into the hallway.

     The bright lights on the arching fixtures were imbued with a flashing orange hue as Spock ran, sensing Jim’s shock and growing pain as everything narrowed to an instinctive need to protect, the sounds of fleeing bodies falling around him fading, alien cries slipping into silence as Spock closed his eyes, concentrating fiercely. He knew would not make it to Jim in time; he could not touch him and initiate a proper meld in time. Anything he could do would have to be at a distance.

     He fell to his knees in the center of the vaulted room, hands at his temples, bolstering his mental shields even as mental energy blazed through their bond to shelter Jim’s mind. The force now battering his shields was wreaking deadly havoc with his struggling, nearly unconscious bondmate, and Spock shuddered as he felt the psychic echoes of Jim’s screams. His human was fighting, flailing in desperate confusion, failing to recognize Spock’s attempts at protection, and the Vulcan was forced to thrust deeper, pushing their tender connection wide open.

     It was on the very edge of being a violation, and Spock sensed Jim’s struggles weaken as the Vulcan asserted necessary control. The pressure against Spock’s burdened shields was becoming an acute pain, compounding again and again, and he heard himself groan, distantly feeling the chill of the floor where it pressed against his bowed head. All around him, terror had disappeared into the gruesome stillness of death, alien life energies extinguished cruelly.

     The human’s mind was fluidly morphing bedlam, slipping away from Spock even as the Vulcan worked to erect rigid defenses. And he was losing. Slowly but surely, he was weakening and the force was unceasing and Spock was falling toward the most basic levels of himself, near the fragile entanglement of his very _katra_ with his bondmate’s. Deeper and deeper, until there was nowhere else to fall and he had to make a decision. Spock could force Jim’s mind to shut down on almost all levels, leaving him temporarily closed off and untouchable. There would be damage, but it was a chance for survival, and as the dispassionate force began to rip into his own _katra_ , feeding on the resonance of mental energy there, Spock acted.

     It was quick and sharp, the immediate darkness horrifying as the light in Jim’s mind vanished from Spock’s perception. The emotional rebound shook the Vulcan and his remaining defenses began to slip. It was _madness_ ; all around him madness, and destruction was burning into his mind and his _katra_ where it still entwined with Jim’s, burning into one last vulnerable place, one final conduit through which his beloved friend’s mind lay exposed. With his last conscious thought, Spock deliberately acted to sever the delicate entanglement between them, saving Jim from danger even as his own mind screamed and destruction swallowed him whole.

 

~.~

 

     Silence: silence and death and then a broken, keening sound that Spock realized as his own voice. He was sprawled on the chilled floor, bodies surrounding him, and his mind was a gaping, savage wound. The killing force had stopped, and the Vulcan could only surmise it to have been just in time before his own death. But he could barely move, and he could not feel Jim _at all_ , and he choked on a sob as he remembered severing their bond. Dark, fluttering emotions curdled the bleeding edges of his mind and he cringed, finding nothing of control or discipline, nothing but hollow agony.

     Even the alarms had stopped and Spock knew that his shields were gone and the absence of anything meant that none had survived. No one. _Jim._ Grief surged so profoundly that his body convulsed and he gasped, his blunt fingernails digging into the smooth, alien flooring. He could feel the pull of his mind toward the inevitable darkness, begging him to simply allow himself to go, to escape this pain and this emptiness and to perhaps rejoin his _t’hy’la_ in another place. Illogical, emotional, and yet he did not care: he was so weak and the pull was so strong and he began to sink—.

     Something crackled and spat and he heard a familiar voice emanating from somewhere across the wide-open expanse.

     _“_ Enterprise _to Base La’ripka. Come in, please. This is_ Enterprise _calling Moonbase La’ripka on secure frequency. We are responding to long-range scans indicating significant and sudden loss of life-signs. Do you require assistance?”_

     _Nyota._ He heard Uhura’s voice and it pulled him reluctantly back to consciousness. The message repeated and Spock dug his fingernails in again as he forced himself to his knees, to crawl over limp and staring bodies to a small communications device clutched within the long-fingered hand of a fallen Aliz’it, crumpled and dulled wings like tissue paper against the floor. Spock’s pained and despairing grasp of the device was brutal, and he heard the snap of the alien’s fine bones as he pulled it free, rolling away onto his side as he blindly felt for the proper key. Seconds ticked by, his time sense torn and oblivious, and he finally heard the channel click open.

     Uhura’s spoke again as the signal went through, _“_ Enterprise _to Base La’ripka. We have a connection. Do you read?”_

     Spock closed his eyes. “This is Spock. There has been…been a psionic attack on the base; all other personnel presumed deceased. Tactical…tactical situation unknown.” His voice shook; he didn’t recognize himself. It felt as though something had been burned out of his mind, the remainder imbued with a loss that he could not contend with.

     Spock heard McCoy’s frantic voice in the background, but when Scott’s brogue came through it was mostly steady. _“Mr. Spock, are ye able ta get t’ th’ shuttle? Orders state we’re unable ta proceed further into th’ system.”_

     “I…do not know.” Spock was shaking with exhaustion; he could not think. He felt…he did not want to feel and yet he could not help it. _Jim, no._

     _“Ye have t’ try, sir, we’re seeing what looks like armed and shielded craft approaching the base.”_ Scotty paused. _“An’ the Captain?”_

     Spock could not answer. He did not wish to say the words, and he let out a pained grunt. He could not leave Jim. He would not—.

     _“Mr. Spock? Sir? Are ye there?”_

     Spock’s murky and tortured mind aligned properly for a split second as he remembered the forced trance; Jim could yet be alive! The thought, however impossible, galvanized him and he rolled onto his stomach, dropping the device, heedless of Scott’s repeated calls. He crawled forward until he reached the edge of the room and, leaning on the wall, pushed himself to his feet, stumbling through the sick silence in the direction of the negotiation rooms. Bodies were everywhere, of both species, and so impossibly young, and Spock did not stop. He still couldn’t think properly, his emotions roaring through the empty spaces in his mind, his grief stifling and overwhelming. And then he reached a large door, already half-open, and he saw his bondmate.

     On the floor next to a large central table, Jim lay facedown next to Deriu Li’Suk. The Ka’al’erion’s muscled arm was outstretched, flung over Jim’s waist as if in protection, and Kat Petras lay nearby, her motionless face contorted in a final, silent scream, her eyes wide and staring. A single red-clad arm extended from beneath a pile of bodies near the door, but Spock did not need to see Foy’s face to know the young security officer was dead.

     Spock fell to his knees again next to the captain, reaching out with trembling hands. If Jim truly were dead, then the Vulcan would follow. That was logical. If nothing else, it was logical. As if logic could ever be as simple as this now seemed—.

     The faintest tremor of Jim’s mental energy resonated powerfully through Spock’s wounded mind and the Vulcan gasped aloud in disbelief, pulling his friend against him, away from the alien’s dead grasp, fingers going automatically to the meld points to make a desperate, searching connection. It was difficult: there was resistance, and Spock’s own mind was so disordered. He pushed harder, beginning to panic and unable to control it, feeling his frustration and anguish flow helplessly into Jim’s mind. He should not be attempting this; he had no control, there was no discipline, there was no way to stem the tide of visceral emotion, there was no way to stop himself from doing whatever it took to retrieve his bondmate’s consciousness. Here, so close to the siren call of Jim’s very being, Spock could not help mentally thrusting forward again, feeling something cry out and shatter, the abrupt flood of mental energy buffeting him as the trance, never intended for humans, released its iron hold on his friend.

     A swirl of defensive energy crashed over Spock, sending his mental hold reeling and slipping before he pushed again, needing to feel Jim; needing to know if his mate had been damaged, if he would live. The blowback hit Spock again, harder, knocking him abruptly out of the meld with a harsh, bitter wake of emotion following: a cacophony of confusion, anger, fear, disgust, _hatred_. Jim didn’t recognize him; didn’t know him. Jim thought Spock was attacking him, as the force had done. In the Vulcan’s arms, the human curled away, still largely unconscious, and Spock blinked, his own face wet with tears. There had been significant injury, but he couldn’t risk another meld to ascertain the extent; he could barely maintain his own sanity through the wild emotional swings and the emptiness still assailing him from within.

     It was enough that Jim was alive. It was enough that the human’s mind was not completely gone from Spock. And there was something astonishingly present even after the deliberate severance and mental trauma. There was _something_ remaining of their cherished connection: more of a resonance and hardly a bond. The difference between this twisted, inexplicable thing and what had existed before was nearly unbearable for Spock to feel. And Spock could not help but feel everything. His own mind was a murky tempest, pained and dizzying, and he knew, even without his normal physiological awareness, that he had experienced neurological damage as well.

     They had to move. They had to escape and attempt to regain the shuttle. Scott had said that there were approaching craft. Spock’s thoughts emerged as singular imperatives through the agonizing fog in his mind. The stark reduction of the bond was worse than anything Spock had before experienced. Even the alien tendrils of Deneva had not touched these places. There was no sanctuary left to which to retreat, no discipline to mitigate the pain, nothing but the terrible realization that he himself had ripped apart that which he had proclaimed _t’hy’la_ , and he couldn’t…he couldn’t—.

     Jim’s low moan broke through and Spock reached out again, grasping his friend’s body with weakened, shaking arms. The surge of responsive resistance came again, shocking the Vulcan, and Spock gritted his teeth, trying to concentrate enough to rebuild at least a veneer of his shields. His meager efforts resulted in more pain, in blinding revolt, and the inexorable emptiness yawned again. He would have to endure. Spock let out a cry as he lifted the human, holding him tightly against his body. The Vulcan forced himself to his feet, struggling to the door and beyond with his precious burden, his mind pummeled and writhing and _wanting_ —.

     He choked, wondering if this was what it was like to go insane, wondering if any of this was real: the bodies, the horror in alien features, fingers curled and grasping, his own complete loss of control, the hissing pain, and the ripping feeling of his _t’hy’la_ ’s fear and loathing surfacing again as the captain emerged from unconsciousness. Jim struggled brutally against him, shoving a vicious elbow into his abdomen, and Spock stumbled, falling to one knee as Jim, now wide awake, scrabbled to escape him, hazel eyes wild.

     This could not be real; this was a fantasy. Maybe even born of the _plak tow_. Maybe he was even now strapped to a biobed in sickbay, dying and wrought with hallucinations. This entire negotiations process had seemed like a cruel joke; ridiculous. These people were not real. He was being punished for murdering his _t’hy’la_ , and this hatred was no more than he deserved. He closed his eyes, and then a sharp kick to his knee jolted him. Jim had not gotten far, clawing at the floor, and Spock blinked once before reaching and administering a nerve pinch. More violence, inflicted by his hands on his bondmate’s person and Spock started to sob in earnest, pulling Jim against him once more; once more stumbling across an alien floor, over a field of death, through air that was too chill and too silent and still hung with the scent of fear.

     They made it to the shuttle somehow, the airlock door succumbing to desperate Vulcan strength as it had cycled but stubbornly refused to open. Blood on Spock’s hands, and blood on Jim’s tunic, and the Vulcan settled his bondmate in the co-pilot’s seat, fastening the restraints around the human’s body and then falling into the other seat. Spock fumbled with the controls, his hands leaving green streaks across the console, and then the shuttle separated and spun, the engines whining as they were forced to operate without the normal warm-up.

     Jim moaned again, beginning to come awake again already, and Spock bit into his own lip savagely, wanting the physical pain to distract himself from the mental tumult. He could barely concentrate and his hands kept slipping, his vision growing blurry, and there were tears on his face again. They were moving, though, past silent gunports and toward the closed bay doors.

     Closer and closer still, and Spock couldn’t think of what to do. They were going to crash or be trapped here and—. Almost at the last second, he saw the huge doors shudder and slowly separate. _Proximity timing on an interior approach vector_ , murmured a corner of his mind. Spock watched the power indicators slowly change as the shuttle’s warp nacelles charged and the containment field stabilized, as they escaped the moonbase and slipped into the black of space. Spock tried to read the navigation panel and couldn’t remember where the _Enterprise_ had been holding station. _He couldn’t remember!_ Everything was slipping away again, sliding into tumbling clashing colors that existed where rigid discipline used to reign. He blinked as bright warning lights flashed on the edges of his vision, and abrupt and violent shuddering of the shuttle seemed to occur at the same time as piercing alarms and the roar of a distant explosion. It wouldn’t stop; none of it would stop or come into focus, and he felt the ship shudder again. A dream: a dream that would be over soon, and the pain, too. _Pain._ Confusing pain along the left side of his body swelled along with smoke and another signal beeped urgently, Spock’s vision narrowing to a single, flashing button. The warp drive was ready. But what came next? He couldn’t breathe; there was something wrong with his lungs, and thick and viscous blood pooled in his mouth. He swallowed and hacked, and heard a harsh command from beside him.

     “Go, damn you!”

     Spock let his bloody hand come down on the flashing button as the order registered. The shuddering descended into a subtle vibration and the bright lights blurred into calm, linear streaks on the viewports as the engines roared, and Spock looked over at Jim. The human was fully awake, his hazel eyes hard. There was nothing but anger and confusion emanating from him along their faint travesty of a connection, and Spock blinked, reaching out despite it. _Jim?_ The human recoiled, his eyes widening, fear surging, and then he swung a shaking fist. There was an impact against Spock’s jaw and the Vulcan finally fell into welcome oblivion.

 

 

Chaper End Notes:

 

(Vulcan translations from the VLD)

 

_yuk-eshu'a_ : nightmare; a dream arousing feelings of intense fear, horror, and distress

_eshak_ :  killing gift; it is the destructive psychokinetic effects of the mind; people with this can kill another with their mind; also spelled eschak

 

 


	11. Cover Our Pain With Broken Beams

Chapter Eleven: Cover Our Pain With Broken Beams

 

     It was not the _tow-kath_ that Spock was drifting within. This was darker and amorphous: no purpose, no focus, nothing but vague, sluggish impressions and rending weakness. Spock couldn’t see; couldn’t feel his body aside from a faint tremor of discomfort. He could hear, though, as if through a thick barrier: muffled familiar voices rising and falling.

     “What’s wrong w’ ‘em, Doctor?” Scott’s familiar brogue was strained.

     “Neurological trauma. I honestly don’t know how they aren’t dead. I’ve been able to regenerate some of the damage, but Spock won’t or can’t self-heal and I have him drugged up to _here_ to prevent any further injury. I won’t be able to tell how bad the captain is until he wakes up and says something.”

     McCoy let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know. Jesus, Scotty, I don’t know. They could have memory loss, or any number of disorders. It would help if I knew what had injured them, but aside from Spock’s cryptic description of a mind weapon, I’ve got nothing.”

     “Well, we’re in th’ shit upstairs, tha’s for sure.” The engineer sounded angry and Spock sensed slippery emotion beyond the numbness instilled by the drugs.

     “I know they were fired upon before going to warp.” McCoy’s tone was grim. “The remainder of our Vulcan blood and plasma stores is lying right here.” There was a brush of air, as if the doctor had gestured over Spock’s body.

     “Aye.” Scott cleared his throat. “We’re holdin’ position a’ a distance, but Komack’s yellin’ up the comm abou’ terrorists and an imminent danger ta th’ Federation. We’ve been issued a warnin’ abou’ goin’ back inta th’ system; somethin’ about a coup, and th’ fightin’s resumed. Ah think we were dealin’ wi’ th’ wrong people an’ th’ landin’ party got caught in th’ crosshairs.”

     The doctor grunted and then muttered, “Damn fucking mission.” He sighed, raising his voice. “Nurse Chapel, let me have that next hypo now; his pain readings are increasing again.”

     There was no sensation of the hypo against his skin, but Spock heard the hiss as medication was dispensed, followed by an impression of falling. Jim was alive, though. His _t’hy’la_ was alive… .

 

~.~

 

     Cutting consciousness advanced and receded and then crept forward again along the edges of Spock’s mind; he could feel his wounded body weakly and his mind was starkly unprotected. The pressure of very human emotional presence curled over his wounded psi centers and he let out a soft moan. There was someone immediately next to him, but he could sense too many unshielded minds, too much emotion, _too much…_ .

     “Easy, Spock. Take it easy.” It was McCoy at his side; he could _feel_ it, and, as Spock opened his eyes to a darkened room, he saw the doctor’s shadowed form. The human was tense and terribly worried, though his expression, barely visible, was studiously composed.

     “I’ve reduced the medication because I need to assess your conscious condition. Your mental shields are probably nil, so I’ve put you in isolation for the time being.” McCoy swallowed heavily. “There’s been measureable improvement over the past twenty-four hours, which is good, and I’m hoping it will continue, but I’d like to—.”

     “Jim?”

     Spock flinched as McCoy’s inner turmoil surged suddenly, though the doctor’s careful outward expression didn’t change. “Jim’s unconscious, Spock. He woke up briefly, about six hours ago, and physically he seems fine, but there’re likely some other complications.” McCoy fumbled audibly over the last word.

     Spock furrowed his brow, mentally searching for his bondmate. It was difficult, and he felt the muscles in his face tighten as he concentrated.

     McCoy shifted from one foot to the other, his tone becoming clinical. “Maybe you could tell me what you remember.”

     Spock tried to move his arms, becoming aware of security restraints fastened snugly over his limbs and around his waist. “I…I am—.” His concentration broke as reluctant memory sparked through the fog in his mind: the pain of the Denevan creature, Jim’s stricken face, and a terrifying compulsion to take the ship, a loss of control that had almost been repeated during the growing pressures of _pon farr_. Had he done something similar now? Spock realized that his own expression was contorted, wholly unguarded, and he could feel the doctor’s concern mixed with embarrassed shock.

     “The restraints are just a precaution,” McCoy asserted quickly. “Nothing you did here, but—.” The doctor’s manner pulsed with ominous urgency. “What happened down there, Spock? Do you remember?”

     Spock turned his face away, staring at the ceiling of the room and attempting to analyze his physiological state. His body hurt from evident surgical intervention: his chest ached with every breath and his left shoulder was very weak, throbbing in rapid flutters of pain with the pulse of his blood. The brief struggle against the restraints had exhausted him, but he could feel nothing indicating a return of the fever.

     That reassuring knowledge allowed him to focus on McCoy’s question, and he answered unevenly, drawing the information out piece by piece from shattered and disparate thoughts. “Negotiations were…proceeding. There were…concerns but no…immediate danger. Ji—the captain wished to…continue.” He bit his lower lip, his mind weakly seeking his _t’hy’la_ ’s elusive presence.

     McCoy hummed. “And what about the attack? You said it was a psionic weapon; a weapon aimed at disrupting brainwaves and manipulating telepathic energies, that sort of thing? Like your Vulcan mind touch?”

     _The attack_ : memories returned of pain, of fear, of the sense of death all around him. Spock closed his eyes, saying hoarsely, “Not…like that. This was no…living being and at a distance…it involved incredible energy. The attack was swift and…decisive. There was no warning, and no way to…to escape…no way to defend without mental shields and even then—.” He trailed off. _Jim_. He had used their bond to protect his _t’hy’la_. It occurred to Spock suddenly that Jim had wanted to keep its presence a secret, and there must have been good reason. The Vulcan let out a soft noise of frustration. His memory was indistinct, and he didn’t know why he couldn’t feel his bondmate.

   “Go ahead, Spock,” the doctor said gently.

     Spock swallowed against a dry throat, recalling flashing images, sensing them slowly build and piece together. “I was able to…to make it to the captain and protect his mind against the majority of the attack using my…own shields…a meld. I did succumb, but regained consciousness immediately prior to communication being…established. I brought the captain to the shuttle and managed to engage the warp drive. I believe we…we were fired upon as we left the moon base.”

     “You were.” McCoy sighed. “You sustained severe injuries to your chest and shoulder when a bulkhead panel exploded. You remember that part, at least.”

     “At least?” Spock opened his eyes again and turned his head to face McCoy.

     “There’s more.” The doctor’s reply was tensely cautious and a prolonged silence stretched before the human exhaled strongly and paced away several steps before turning around abruptly. “Spock, is it possible that you did more than simply protect Jim’s mind in the attack? Do you remember,” he paused, grimacing, “hurting him, in your injured state?”

     “Clarify,” Spock said flatly. He still could not sense Jim and he felt dread, jagged and desperate, rise from the quagmire in his mind. There was more, on the very cusp of remembrance, carrying with it the thick weight of guilt.

     “You may have been experiencing an altered reality as a result of significant neurological trauma. Your…you—.” McCoy’s expression became grim. “Or the stress may have re-initiated certain violent impulses related to your previously unresolved _pon farr_.”

     “I do not understand!” Spock winced at the raw, confused sound of his voice, and he struggled to control himself. “Is the captain—?”

     McCoy’s voice and manner had turned determinedly clinical again. “When he awoke, Jim was nearly incoherent, but he said that you had forced his mind. It wasn’t clear if it was because of your own reaction to the attack or in the process of protecting him, but he was certain that you had deliberately hurt him.”

     And then the wave of memory burst over him in glinting, eidetic detail, carrying with it yawning pain and loss. Remaining mental fogginess inexorably gave way, and Spock could suddenly identify the raw place where their bond had been. _Where he had severed it._ He had done this; he had ripped apart that precious connection, even as his bondmate had resisted. Spock had hurt Jim, had forced him, had done this to the one he loved.

     Spock’s mouth hung open, and he felt pressure in his chest as he remembered how the captain had struggled against him. “I had no alternative, at the last, but to…to force his mind into a trance, to shut down higher functioning to prevent…to prevent the damaging energies from killing him.”

   McCoy peered at him. “Jim wasn’t in a trance when we picked you up, Spock. He was in shock and shallowly unconscious. I,” he cleared his throat, “I found bruising over his shoulder, where it looked like you’d nerve pinched him.”

     Spock closed his eyes, his limbs shaking, and his flesh chafing against the restraints. “I brought him out of the trance just after contacting the ship. I was—. I was not in control. He woke and was…he did not know me.” He could now feel harsh echoes of Jim’s unconscious pain, his bondmate’s subliminal stress rising sharply as Spock, driven by desolate need, involuntarily and inelegantly probed the single, tortured tendril remaining of their connection.

     McCoy grunted thoughtfully. “He’d recovered his memory of you when he woke up. He knew who he was and that there’d been an attack, but most of what he’d said was gibberish and he became increasingly agitated; I’d had to sedate him again.” He gestured to the restraints. “We needed to take all precautions, though, with Jim’s story and the evident damage that had been done to both you. And I expected some degree of cognitive impact in each of you.” He paused as Spock opened his eyes again. “I know you saved his life, Spock, and I believe any aggressiveness on your part wasn’t consciously intended, but his reaction to you is—.” McCoy cleared his throat uncomfortably. “He needs rest and a chance to reconcile all this.”

     Spock’s breathing was coming fast and shallow and he felt panic begin to build, both his and Jim’s. Piercing, dark pain flooded his mind as Spock heard the high-pitched whistle of the call button on the wall.

     “McCoy here,” the doctor barked, punching the button with his fist.

      _“Chapel. The captain’s stress indicators have started a sharp rise, Doctor, cause unknown.”_

     “Is he still out?”

     _“Yes, Doctor.”_

     “Administer another 5 cc of cyrolintal and report back.”

     _“Yes, sir.”_

     The channel clicked closed and, impelled by his _t’hy’la’s_ distress, Spock finally forced himself to mentally withdraw, leaving the bleak remnant of their broken bond flailing weakly. The Vulcan’s vision began to blur and he began to fight against the restraints as McCoy loomed suddenly over him, a hypospray held in his hand.

     “Spock, do you need—?”

     “No!” The Vulcan swallowed reflexively, feeling tears in his eyes. Shrieking hollowness had swelled in the wake of his mental withdrawal and Spock wrenched at the restraints, drawing lancing bursts of pain and latching onto them, focusing just long enough to raise a trembling shield between his mind and his insensible friend’s. Jim’s subconscious reaction to Spock’s presence was visceral, and the Vulcan would not contribute further to his beloved friend’s pain, even if it cost Spock dearly.

     McCoy’s confusion and anxiousness battered him. “Spock, goddammit, stop it, you’re going to rip everything open again!” The doctor positioned the hypo against the Vulcan’s arm and Spock stilled immediately, shaking his head against the thin pillow and repeating firmly, “No! I decline additional medication. I require only solitude.”

     “Spock—.”

     The Vulcan’s hands curled into painful fists. “I must regain control. And in this you cannot assist me.”

     “I can’t just leave you here. Not like this!” McCoy sounded fraught, and the intercom whistled again. “Dammit,” the doctor muttered, stalking to the wall. “McCoy!”

     _“Chapel, sir. Captain Kirk’s readings have stabilized.”_

     McCoy let out a taut breath. “Fine. Keep an eye on him; I’ll be right there.” He killed the channel and turned to the Vulcan. “Spock, I can’t—.”           

     “I must…endure. My mind will heal.” Spock did not want to suffer the loss of his bond in full view of this man, who had seen so much already. McCoy might claim to be his friend, but the doctor was human, and would not understand.

     “Leave me!” the Vulcan insisted through gritted teeth. “Attend to the captain.”

     The doctor hesitated, and then moved toward the door. “I have you on the biomonitor,” he said shortly. “And I’ll be right outside.” His footsteps paused again. “I’m sorry, Spock.”

     The door clicked, and Spock felt the human’s unique psi signature fade into the wash of ambient mental noise. The fierce instinct to protect his _t’hy’la_ brought powerful determination to the Vulcan’s mind. He had to prevent his further helpless grasping of that raw connection; he had to steel himself with the resolute implacability of Vulcan discipline to endure the absence of what had been everything to him. And for the first time, he understood what might drive one’s _katra_ to _kolinahr_.

     Spock caught his breath, concentrating on the perceptible evidence of humanity, on effervescent thoughts and emotions. It was hardly how a Vulcan would proceed, but he was not fully Vulcan and far from a healer’s assistance. Alone, yet not alone, and the dynamism of his shipmates was comforting in its similarity to his lost bondmate’s mind. This awareness was real and bright and loud and could be grasped and held, forced to fill those forlorn places to prevent total collapse, to bolster the wavering shield now guarding his _t’hy’la_ ’s sanity. If Jim Kirk had taught Spock anything, it was not to give up, and he would not give up now, not even with this hopelessness and pain: everything, for Jim, anything for his mate, his beloved.

 

~.~

 

     Spock sat quietly on the biobed. Where there had been cacophony was now tenuous silence. Where there had been the cutting agony of a broken bond was now a dark, hidden ache. Spock had fortified himself with what he could grasp of Vulcan strictness, overlain with the sheerest veneer of control. It was as if he had materialized back onto the _Enterprise_ after his final farewell to T’Pring and to Vulcan, the dust of his homeworld on his clothes and Jim’s death weighing cruelly on his soul. Guilt and grief and pain, necessarily masked then as now, and as superficially.

     McCoy let the pile of loosened restraints fall loudly onto a nearby bench. The human’s expression was lined with disapproval, but Spock was satisfied not to feel the doctor’s churning emotions, even in this proximity.

     “Twenty-seven hours and change, Spock, and I’ve been up the entire time. Don’t expect to simply jump up and run right back on-duty; your body, however resilient, didn’t manage to super-heal itself this time. I imagine you’re in a bit of discomfort, and you still need to rest.” McCoy spoke rapidly and defensively, stern blue eyes flicking almost angrily between Spock’s face and the diagnostic indicator on the wall. “I wish you’d let me give you something for the pain.”

     “Pain is a thing of the mind, Doctor,” Spock replied flatly.

     “I’ve heard you say that before,” retorted McCoy with a twist of his lips. “And _never_ has that meant that you were fine.”

     Spock did not dispute McCoy’s assertion, waiting in silence as the doctor waved a scanner over his body. The human grunted in disbelief or displeasure or both and frowned. “Physical readings are much improved, though. Hell if I know how you managed that bit of Vulcan wizardry.”

     Spock could sense nothing of Jim beyond the throbbing soreness of the shield firmly separating them. No light, no warmth, no gentle background of human dynamism and unapologetic emotionalism. No reassuring responsive reaching for his own thoughts. The absence was hollow and bitter, full of a yearning for something gone and devastated certainty that he had never truly deserved it in the first place. Spock didn’t know the name of this emotion, nor the corresponding pang low in his chest that defied physical meaning.

     “You’re restricted to quarters until further notice,” McCoy barked preemptively. “I’ll be checking on you every six hours. I want you to meditate or sleep, and I want you to report any change in your status immediately.”

     “Doctor, the negotiations with the two factions were—.”

     “Never mind about all that!” McCoy’s voice was wrought with frustration. “Scotty’s handling Komack, and Command is still weighing what needs to be done about the renewed fighting in the system, if anything. You’ve—.” He lowered his voice. “You’ve already got your hands full.” A look of pain creased McCoy’s face. “Whatever you need to say to Jim can wait, too. I don’t believe for a second that any kind of confrontation would be good for either of you right now.”

     “The captain is awake?” Spock raised his eyes to meet McCoy’s.

     “Yes,” the doctor replied. “He regained consciousness a couple hours after I left you. I still have him under observation, but he seems rational and has begun to compile an official report.” McCoy shrugged. “Maybe the regenerative therapy I’d begun had finally showed results, or maybe he just needed time; neurological damage is a tricky thing.” He frowned again at the diagnostic board, his lips pressed tightly together. “He still seems to have some memory gaps, though; we’re still evaluating his command competency in that regard.”

     “I understand.” Spock blinked. Jim was alive and awake, and coherent, and yet apparently had not mentioned the bond. The possible danger to his _t’hy’la_ by their continued silence seemed to outweigh any other concerns, but Spock did not wish to proceed without Jim’s consent.

     “I just have one question,” McCoy said, his blue eyes fixing on Spock. “Do you remember if Yeoman Petras and Ensign Foy were—?”

     “They are dead,” Spock replied. He bowed his head. “I saw their bodies.”

     McCoy face contorted as he crossed his arms angrily over his chest. “This mission was a bust and I hate having to tell you that I told you so, but I damn well told you so, didn’t I?”

     Spock stood up slowly, tugging at the hem of his newly donned tunic. “Indeed, you did.”

     “I knew it was a suicide run!” the doctor continued vehemently, as if he hadn’t heard the Vulcan’s quiet remark. “Two crewmembers lost and Jim—.” Blue eyes widened, and the anguish clearly written on McCoy’s face cut through Spock’s painstakingly constructed shields. “I asked you to _protect_ him, Spock, not hurt him again. I trusted you. He _trusted_ you.”

     Humans have a curious expression: _a house of cards_. Spock only now realized what that meant, and he struggled to hold onto his impassive mask as a last resort against crumbling mental barriers, layers of discipline vanishing with the doctor’s single, plaintive accusation that struck too closely to Spock’s own helpless emotions.

     McCoy stared at him as if waiting for an answer, and Spock managed a tight reply through burgeoning grief, guilt, and renewed, painful awareness of loss. “I attempted to do so, Doctor.”

     McCoy sighed, his shoulders slumping, and he suddenly looked ten years older. “I know,” he said resignedly. “God help me, I know you did. I’m sure…I hope Jim will eventually forgive you this, too.” His mouth tightened and he half-turned toward the door, gesturing the Vulcan forward. “Go on and rest, Commander. That’s a firm medical order.”

     There seemed to be too much complexity in the movement of one foot in front of the other, muscles straining to the point of pain, vision blurring around the edges in a wholly unfamiliar way, but Spock accomplished the action anyway, moving past the doctor’s defeated form and into the compact hallway of the isolation wing. The air here seemed somehow cooler, but Spock couldn’t spare the energy or concentration to determine its exact temperature. He couldn’t think of a reason to know.

     “Mr. Spock!” Nurse Chapel’s exclamation drew his attention and he reluctantly slowed, seeing her standing in the open doorway to the last room on the left, a tray in her hands. “It’s good to see you on your feet, sir.”

     Spock swallowed and nodded haltingly, seeing her expression shift inexplicably as she glanced behind her at the room’s occupant. Desperately maintained mental shielding faltered as Spock met Jim’s hazel eyes, and the Vulcan was powerless against that floodtide of beloved resonance. Time seemed to pause as Spock saw Jim’s mouth move in pronunciation of his name, and then emotion came into identifiable focus: shock, and overwhelming confusion.

     “No!” McCoy’s voice rang angrily down the hall as Spock abruptly stopped. “This isn’t a good idea. Go on, Spock, I—.”

     “Bones,” Jim interrupted softly, his soft, articulate tones like balm to the Vulcan’s tortured soul. “It’s alright.”

     Chapel had retreated in the face of McCoy’s approaching ire. “It’s not, Jim! Goddammit, based on what happened earlier this could very well lead to a recurrence of—.”

     “Give us five minutes,” Jim replied plainly, his eyes never leaving Spock’s face. “Please.”

     McCoy hesitated, and all of Spock’s dwindling energy poured into regaining his shields, drowning out McCoy’s seething anger and incredible worry, erasing Chapel’s concern, and even pulling away from Jim’s own mental siren call.

     “Fine,” the doctor returned tightly. “Five minutes, and I’ll wait outside.” He turned a fading glare on Spock before wincing and shaking his head. “I don’t know why I even bother sometimes. Fucking unbelievable.”

     He took a step back, waiting with his arms folded again in front of his chest, and Spock stepped forward as the door slid shut between them. The Vulcan bit his lower lip and his knees threatened to buckle and he moved jerkily to a chair, sitting down heavily.

     Jim barely moved in response. He sat on the biobed, clad in a blue sickbay jumpsuit, propped up on pillows with a data reader pushed off to the side and PADDs piled on the nearby table. His skin was unnaturally pale and drawn, and his eyes held unfamiliar guardedness. Long seconds of silence stretched between them, and the captain finally spoke, “What happened back there, Spock?”

     “What I did was unforgiveable,” the Vulcan replied.

     Jim’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Saving my life?”

     “The manner in which I did so was damaging to you.”

     “Yes.” There was a thick significance to that single word. “But I imagine it was unavoidable. I remember pain: mine, and yours.”

     Spock waited; knowing his friend well enough to sense there was something else coming.

     Jim leaned forward slightly. “What I don’t understand was how you did it.”

     Spock blinked, and the captain continued in a hard voice, “You weren’t close enough to touch me.” He studied Spock. “It wasn’t a meld. How did you do it?”

     _Memory gaps._ Jim did not remember their bond. Spock folded his hands on his lap, another inexplicable pang moving through him as he saw the way the captain’s eyes involuntarily followed the motion, the human’s expression tightening with something like wariness.

     “Doctor McCoy mentioned that you may have suffered memory loss,” Spock began slowly.

     “Obviously,” Jim retorted dryly.

     Spock faltered, his mouth opening and closing again soundlessly.

     “I don’t remember a lot of things, mostly associated with you, and pretty much all since Vulcan,” Jim said. “Bones says it might be dissociative amnesia, brought on by,” he waved a hand, “what happened between us on that base.” His lips tightened. “He said that you’d had some trouble, too, when you’d first regained consciousness, but that it had come back pretty quickly.” He raised his eyebrows significantly. “So, maybe you can explain it to me.”

     “There was—,” Spock paused. “After the _kalifee_ , I discovered that a mental link had formed between us.”

     “A mental link,” Jim repeated. His brow furrowed. “After Vulcan?”

     “Yes.” Spock tilted his head. “You remember nothing of—?”

     “No,” Jim cut in. He had crossed his arms protectively over his chest. “No, I don’t remember that.” Hazel eyes lifted. “And that’s how you accessed my mind during the attack, isn’t it; through that link? You didn’t need a meld.”

     “Yes.” Spock’s voice was barely audible.

     “But you had to force my mind. I do remember that. I didn’t want you to do…what you did. Whatever it was, I was desperate to stop it. I fought against you.”

     Another fierce pang in his chest, but Spock answered evenly, “You did not clearly recognize my presence apart from the damaging energies, but yes, you did fight against what you perceived to be a mental attack. I had no choice but to—.”

     “I was aware of this…this link?” Jim interrupted abruptly. “I accepted it?”

     “Yes,” Spock replied quietly. He didn’t elaborate further, seeing his friend’s growing distress in the tight arrangement of his body and the stubborn set to his jaw.

     Jim glanced at him. “And Bones didn’t know?” The hazel gaze dropped, and a slew of expression crossed the captain’s face. “Wait, I remember…I remember something now. Komack—.” He winced, bringing a hand to his temple. “Komack wanted to use it against us, after T’Pau’s intervention. Right?” He looked again at Spock, his eyes brightly questioning.

     “Yes,” Spock answered stiffly.

     “Yes,” Jim murmured. “And so we didn’t tell anyone.” He was looking off to the side, his lips moving silently, his eyes darting back and forth. “I accepted it. I wanted it. I didn’t want it to break—.”

     Spock tilted his head. “Do you remember anything else, regarding the link?”

     “What do you mean?” Jim asked, looking at Spock sharply. The captain’s hand dropped to his lap. “What else should I know?”

     Spock couldn’t answer, not in the face of Jim’s hard expression and defensive distance, not with pain hovering so close and the captain’s life and sanity so recently in the balance. What to tell him? That they were lovers? _T’hy’la_? That he knew the touch of Jim’s hands, the taste of his mouth, the call of his mind? That he knew Jim’s voice as he spoke of love, and the scent of passion on his skin? Would that make the violence he had inflicted on his friend more difficult for either of them to bear? Would Jim infer such a development to have been yet another compulsion: something else forced, something else beyond his control?

     And Spock himself had relinquished all claims to such intimacy by destroying that which had been so cherished between them. Even if it was to save Jim’s life, Spock had still torn apart their bond against his _t’hy’la_ ’s will, and Jim had fought against him; unknowingly, but fiercely. And might there have been another way?

     “You needed a link, didn’t you? After your fiancé called a fight to the death?” Jim’s voice was distant. “And I obliged, of course, because I was…because I am your friend.” He swallowed. “I am your friend,” he repeated firmly.

     Spock drew in a halting breath and the captain continued, “I think I understand why you had to do what you did. I understand, but it’s hard to—.” He grimaced. “It’s hard to—.” A sudden look of consternation crossed his face. “Is the link…is it still there?”

     Spock thought briefly of the fragment of a connection remaining between them, something that would surely slowly wither away under the protective shield. Something that, even representing such cruel pain and emptiness, was better then a complete loss, an existence bereft of any part of he who had been his bondmate.

     “Not as such…no,” the Vulcan said finally, brokenly. “The link was effectively severed, necessarily in order to protect your mind.”

     The human’s strong exhale, presumably of relief, was a powerful blow, and Spock knew that some of its impact showed in his own expression.

     Jim flinched slightly. “I don’t think that—.” He swallowed heavily. “I think we should simply move forward as best we can, given the circumstances. There’s still a complex interplanetary conflict out there, the deaths of hundreds of people yet unsolved. I don’t want to add this,” he pointed to his own head, “to Komack’s list, distracting us from what’s really important. We need to be here to make this right, not stuck in court martial on some starbase.”

     The captain spoke rapidly, his cheeks flushed, and Spock nodded mute agreement.

     “Are you—?” Jim paused, peering at the Vulcan cautiously. “Do you still need a link? If you needed it after Vulcan, does that mean that—?”

     “I am functional,” Spock answered firmly, trying to ignore the surge of despair that followed the captain’s unwitting question. Another bond broken, and Spock could only speculate what might follow with regard to his hybrid physiology. A small internal voice reminded him that it would not matter. Spock would not hurt his _t’hy’la_ , and he had no place to which to return. _Vre’kasht_ : no homeworld that would accept him, and no access to any ritual that might spare him.

     “Good.” Jim slumped back against the pillows. “I still need you.” He looked at Spock, his eyes softening despite the lines of stress in his face. “I just need time. I’ve dealt with…with something like this before. Traumatic disassociation.” His lips twisted in a humorless smile. “I’ve been told by countless experts that I’m resilient.”

     And that veiled reference to Tarsus was Spock’s undoing. The Vulcan stood up abruptly, hands at his sides curled into fists, feeling facial muscles strain as he struggled to control his expression. “I shall leave you to your rest, sir,” he blurted, not waiting for Jim’s response before hitting the small access panel next to the door and escaping into the chilly corridor outside.

     McCoy’s strident questions fell on deaf ears as Spock marched out of the isolation wing, moving through the sickbay and out to the corridor beyond. Mercifully unseen by other members of the crew in this, the depths of gamma shift, he made his way into the turbolift and endured the short walk to his quarters. In minutes he was in the dark warmth of his rooms, the door closing smoothly behind him. He was alone. _Alone_ , and this time when he fell to his knees there was no reassuring human presence to hold him, no stalwart mind to soothe and accept him. He resisted the urge to touch the pained ashes of their bond, overcome by another resurgence of grief-stricken emotion: the loss of a lover, the loss of a home. And this was his doing, as surely as when he had strangled Jim with his own hands. He could almost feel the bitter sands of his homeworld against his skin, the slippery scent of the Ka’al’erion death knell.

     He closed his eyes, hands held open out at his sides in grief. He had lost their bond, but his _t’hy’la_ was alive and the ship was safe. _Kaiidth_. He was alone in his thoughts, but he had known Jim’s mind in the most intimate way, a short, cherished communion. _Kaiidth_. He might yet die in a resurgent _plak tow_ , but he was still First Officer of the _Enterprise_ and had immediate responsibilities. Painstakingly salvaged control slowly advanced and Spock forced his mind from the illogical fog of emotional purgatory to the stringency of calculation and analysis, to the pursuit of his duty. He opened his eyes, standing unsteadily and moving stiffly to his workstation. _Kaiidth_.

 

 


	12. Through A Glass, Darkly

Chapter Twelve: Through A Glass, Darkly

 

   The rising whistle of the inter-ship call pierced through Spock’s concentration and he tilted his head in a frankly human gesture as he heard Jim’s even tenor follow the hail.

     _“All hands, this is the Captain.”_ There was the briefest pause. _“As you may be aware, we are maintaining our position ten AU from Epsilon Doroni at the solar normal system boundary, continuing to hold defensive posture under yellow alert conditions. We are awaiting further orders regarding the apparent cessation of hostilities within the system. Accordingly, senior crewmembers are to report to the briefing room at oh-six-hundred for a priority subspace comm with Admiral Komack. Kirk out.”_

     Spock straightened his head as the channel clicked shut, seeing data scrolling rapidly and unacknowledged across his active computer screen. He blinked once and then touched his PADD to stop the stream, his tense jaw aching afresh as his mind glanced over the shield that separated his thoughts from the faded tendril of the severed bond. Even after eighteen hours of painstaking multivariate focus, re-establishing his mental discipline and conducting his own personal research, just the sound of his _t’hy’la_ ’s voice had instigated an uncontrolled response.

     Though his overall restraint was deplorable by any Vulcan standard, Spock was again functional. His seated posture was determinedly faultless despite lingering physical aches and his impassive mask had returned, effectively hiding deep-seated emotional anguish. Pain was indeed a thing of the mind and, accordingly, was being used as a sharp focal point for gathering fragmented command.

     A single message indicator flashed in the upper corner of his screen, showing a recently sent, high-priority coded transmission. Yet unanswered, but that was expected given both the recipient and the content of the message. Spock reached out again to resume the data feed and halted abruptly, his hand outstretched and visibly shaking. He felt his teeth grind together but his muscle control was sufficient to stem the trembling, allowing his fingers to land finally, calmly, on his desk. His thoughts, however, helplessly returned to Jim’s voice, and he closed his eyes. The captain had evidently been released to duty, which implied that he had been deemed physically and psychologically fit. Spock felt a surge of relief at the notion as well as a pang of regret that his friend had not attempted to speak with him again. Both emotions were acknowledged and allowed to slip away, but the twisting guilt and longing were, as ever, more difficult to contend with. Jim had once pointed out that self-immolation was illogical, but Spock believed himself entirely capable nevertheless.

     Spock opened his eyes, focusing on the very top of his monitor, slightly nauseated as inner turmoil crested and then settled yet again. There was some aspect of this incident, this _severance_ , remaining unaccounted for, resisting even his best attempts at Vulcan stringency, and he could think of only a few reasons for it. The feared onset of _pon farr_ , the approach of slow insanity due to psionic trauma, or perhaps only his human component asserting itself with crass impunity and elusive ingenuity. One way or another, he sensed a growing urgency within himself, and the unknown hung as an abyss looming before him, bottomless and unforgiving.

     “Damn,” he muttered brokenly, the word hanging incongruously in the heat and red-lit austerity of his quarters. “ _Damn_.” The Terran vulgarity seemed fitting, even as his Vulcan nature protested against the gross illogic of it, and Spock’s gaze slid along the clean lines of the computer, remembering how it felt to crush its solid frame, to give some kind of release to this anger, this fear, this _helplessness_ that was of his own making.

     His door buzzer uttered a bare, perfunctory noise in near-coincidence with Doctor McCoy’s barreling entry into Spock’s quarters, and the Vulcan forced his own hands flat on the desk’s surface in front of him.

     “I knew it,” grumbled McCoy, moving forward belligerently until he stood immediately in front of the desk, arms crossed over his chest. “I thought I was clear: sleep or meditation. And I bet you’ve been sitting here just like this since I released you!”

     Spock slowly raised his gaze to meet accusing blue eyes. “Indeed, I have,” replied the Vulcan simply. Spock was surprised not to hear anything in his voice of the banked aggression creeping through his mind.

     “Right,” the doctor answered darkly. His lips twisted. “Well, I guess this is nothing more than I expected. I had to release Jim or risk him hotwiring the security system in sickbay.”

     Spock lifted his chin but remained silent, resorting to imposition of control through sheer stubborn will.

     McCoy bounced on the balls of his feet as he narrowed his eyes. “He hasn’t been here, has he?”

     “He has not.” Spock managed not to avert his directed regard, curling his shoulders slightly. These strange pangs in his lower chest were becoming more and more common and it occurred to him that it was a physiological expression of an emotional surge: nerve overstimulation due to a particularly stressful emotional response. This further evidence of his lack of physiological oversight was disturbing.

     Evidently unaware of the Vulcan’s internal struggles, McCoy grunted noncommittally, his posture relaxing somewhat as he lowered his arms and reached to his belt for his medical scanner, commenting, “Jim refused to tell me what happened between you before you stormed out of sickbay.” He paused. “Again, nothing more than I expected.”

     Spock folded his hands in front of him on the desk. “I do not understand your emotional distress,” he remarked in a weak mirroring of their usual banter. “If the captain has recovered enough to be released, then you have fulfilled your duties admirably.”

     McCoy arched his brows. “Oh, really? You don’t understand my—?” He leaned forward confrontationally. “From what I saw back in sickbay, you seem to _understand_ a lot more than you’ll admit to, Spock.”

     Spock could not help an abrupt stiffening of his own shoulders, sending an uncontrolled twinge down his left arm and across his chest as abused muscles stretched. Irritation scratched and swelled and he forced himself to reply evenly, “That is unworthy of you, Doctor.”

     McCoy winced. “It is, isn’t it, but what else can I do?” He sniffed. “Jim refuses to talk about it, and you’ve got your Vulcan mask firmly in place.”

     Spock didn’t look away, a question forming on his lips as if by its own accord. “Do you truly prefer what lies beneath?” It was something that had often occurred to him to ask this man, who seemed so eager to poke and prod and pry reactions from him, who deliberately antagonized Spock as if wanting to prove suppressed humanity by its obvious manifestation. It was, in a way, how the Vulcan children of Spock’s youth had attempted to elicit emotion from him. And it was so very different from how Jim had always treated him.

     McCoy winced again at the Vulcan’s quiet words. “No,” the doctor answered quickly. “No, I don’t.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out; his cheeks were growing flushed, as if from embarrassment, but Spock felt none of its transference. For all his own instability, Spock’s mental shields were, mercifully, holding.

     McCoy swallowed. “And you’re not well, are you? You’re hiding it, as you always do.”

     “It is, presently, the only way,” Spock replied shortly. It was not a lie to keep his difficulties to himself; the doctor could do nothing for him.

     McCoy frowned. He appeared genuinely concerned, and this was where the Vulcan’s confusion lay: on the other side of cruel antagonism there was always careful solicitation, even kindness.

     “My job is to heal,” the doctor finally remarked. “How can I do that if I don’t understand the injury; if I can’t even see it?”

     “I believe,” Spock replied coolly, “that I assumed that risk when coming onboard a starship with a predominantly human crew.”

     McCoy’s frown deepened, hardness creeping back into his expression. “It seems, lately, that we assumed some risk, too.” He paused almost defensively before blurting, “And Jim in particular.”

     Spock sensed his own impassive façade begin to crack as his voice sharpened. “Perhaps the admiral recruited your recent insights in part to take advantage of your obvious predilections in that regard.”

     McCoy flushed a dark red. “I’m not xenophobic!” he exclaimed. “I’m just getting more than a little tired of the first officer’s questionable relationship with the captain!”

     “Explain,” Spock said dangerously.

     “You really want me to say it?” McCoy snapped.

     “You know nothing of it!” The echoes of Spock’s shouted words lingered in the room, and the Vulcan realized belatedly that he was standing, his desk chair shoved back against the partition. His control had done more than crack; it had broken down completely, and he quickly locked his hands behind his back, aware that they were again shaking.

     McCoy, however, far from displaying any sort of triumph or satisfaction at the fact of Spock’s discomposure, appeared completely deflated, his eyes closing as his head bowed. “Damn it all,” he muttered, reaching blindly for a chair and lowering himself heavily into it. “Dammit.”

     The doctor pressed his lips together, tilting his chin up to meet the Vulcan’s wary gaze. He grimaced slightly. “You’re right, Spock, I don’t know anything of it.” He swallowed, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “Please sit down. I can’t…I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

     Spock blinked and slowly sat down, leaving the desk chair where it was: pushed as far back against the partition as possible. He could _feel_ the human now: roiling guilt and anguish and cutting regret; McCoy was experiencing his own form of inner torture.

     McCoy sighed. “So here we are again, huh?”

     Spock remained silent, his hands folded in his lap, fingers interlaced, rigid.

     “I don’t know anything of it,” McCoy repeated, “except the empty spaces filled with what _isn’t_ said, and I suppose that I’m as much or more to blame for that, with Komack’s order hanging over my head.” He sniffed, emphasizing, “I’m not xenophobic, but my job is to know what’s going on with the command team at all times, and the two of you seem to find sport in shutting me out. So now we’ve got this situation between you, and I don’t know where to begin to help you.”

     He blinked rapidly, not waiting for a response. “And we’ve still got your _pon farr_ , which, as far as I know, is still lurking in the background, and you tell me that you’ve been cast out of your homeworld, implying that there won’t be any more frantic trips to Vulcan in the future even if necessary. And _that_ suggests you’ve either found another solution, which you haven’t told me about, or that you’re simply willing to crawl away and die this time.”

     He paused, staring at Spock. “And after what seemed to have happened on that moon base, I wouldn’t put it past you to consider the latter option.” He flinched. “Vulcan mores be damned; you’d do anything to keep Jim safe, I know that. Even from yourself.”

     “It is my duty to—.”

     McCoy interrupted the Vulcan’s stiff reply with an overly loud snort, shoving himself to his feet and wielding the forgotten scanner almost as a weapon. “Well, if we’re talking about duty, then I suppose I should remember mine. Stand up, Spock.”

     Spock swallowed, biting his lip slightly as he stood, his hands finding their way behind his back again, clasped tightly, his shoulder straining with the effort.

     McCoy’s simmering emotions were echoed in his expression as he unhooked his tricorder from his belt and waved the scanner in the direction of Spock’s body. He grunted once and then flipped the unit closed with a flick of his wrist. “If you don’t eat, I’m going to order an IV. If you don’t rest, then I’ll call Security to march you back down to sickbay.” He shrugged. “I can’t tell shit from crap right now, honestly, except that you’re exhausted and depleted and still in pain.” Blue eyes met brown. “Your hormones don’t seem to be elevated, which is good news for everyone, but I’ll need a blood test to be sure.”

     “Do you wish to conduct it at this time?” Spock asked pertly.

     “No, goddammit! Weren’t you listening? I want you to eat and rest. I’d love to give you a painkiller, but I know that’s not going to happen.” He shook his head tightly. “Like hell I’m going to take any more blood right now. Do you know how much you lost when—?” He cut himself off fiercely as Spock drew breath to respond, continuing breathlessly, “Don’t even say it; I know a sample wouldn’t matter. Just lie down. That’s an order, Spock. Lie down right now or I’m going to just sit here all night in this heat and sweat all over your computer.”

     Spock’s eyebrow rose precipitously, and McCoy crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly. “Well?” the doctor asked.

     “I shall retire, Doctor,” the Vulcan finally replied. He saw the doctor’s eyes narrow and Spock lowered his gaze, reaching for his PADD and shutting down his screen.

     The room darkened further and McCoy licked his lips, bouncing once on his toes before nodding. “Fine. I’ll assume my point’s been made.” He heaved a breath. “I suppose I’ll see you at the briefing.”

     Spock did not respond, his gaze following the doctor as the human turned and stalked out of his quarters. The door slid shut, and in the wake of McCoy’s bellicose presence, the ambient mental hum of his shipmates swelled within his consciousness, buffeting his _katra_. The dynamic essence both consoled him and dug sharply into the heart of his grief; it was so close to Jim’s mental song, and he could imagine Jim among them, moving among them, emotions rising and falling as theirs did in uncontrolled, beautiful colors. _He could imagine… . So human… ._ Spock sensed his previous anger fall away into wrenching sadness and resignation and he bit his lip again, moving toward his bed. He would sleep; he would will himself to sleep as he had willed this veneer of control. Perhaps he would dream, too, as humans do. Perhaps he would have no choice.

 

~.~

 

     Admiral Komack’s stern visage filled the briefing room screens. _“I don’t understand, Captain. You were dealing, obviously, with a group of terrorists. Youthful and unexpected terrorists, admittedly, but still terrorists.”_

     Jim’s lips pursed. He was still pale and slightly slumped in his seat. “As I detailed in my report, sir, we don’t know who we were dealing with. The label of ‘terrorists’ was summarily assigned by the factions that moved in upon the release of that weapon and—.”

     Komack cut in sharply, _“Terrorists who decided to take their own lives in the course of harming Federation interests as well as the interests of the rightful governments in the system.”_

     “Sir—,” Jim began weakly.

     Komack ignored him. _“The facts of the incident have been laid out for us. These interventionists, knowing that their governments were on the brink of negotiating for peace, wished to undermine the process and perhaps initiate a conflict with the Federation at the same time!”_

     “Sir!” the captain interjected, more forcefully. “That is patently false, in my opinion. Again, as I indicated in my report, there was tremendous complexity at play even in the short time we were there. The people we dealt with exhibited a camaraderie and compassion for each other that defied the pre-mission briefs describing the animosity and race-hatred rampant in the system. They worked together and displayed deep cultural understanding and respect, not only for each other but for us as well. I’ve had some experience with fanatics, Admiral, and these people did not fall anywhere near that category.”

     “ _Your opinion, Captain_ ,” Komack remarked dismissively.

     “It is not opinion, Admiral,” Spock broke in firmly. “It is fact. As it is fact that they did not know what was killing them when the weapon was discharged.”

_“So you’ve indicated,”_ Komack replied. _“But your mental state at the time was in question, Mr. Spock, and Captain Kirk was completely incapacitated. How do we know that your entire recollection of the events on that base wasn’t influenced by your exposure to that device_?” He paused. _“Whatever it was.”_

     Spock felt his facial muscles shift into a glare. “It was a psionic weapon, sir. Of a kind that implies significant research into telepathic transference and response by beings who are themselves telepaths.”

     There was a subdued murmur around the table, and, on-screen, Komack’s eyes narrowed. _“The Aliz’it and the Ka’al’erion aren’t telepathically sensitive.”_

     “Indeed,” Spock retorted, an edge of rudeness in his voice. He could peripherally see Jim’s eyes on him, the same searching gaze that the captain had directed to him again and again as their reports were presented and the other officers had commented over the previous two hours. It was uncharacteristically vulnerable and devoid of anything accusatory or cruel; it inspired a surge of fierce protectiveness and what was turning out to be careless resolve. “They are not,” Spock affirmed, “but Vulcans are.”

_“I am aware of—,”_ Komack began.

     Spock broke in, “Are you aware of the latest research to come out of the Vulcan Science Academy regarding long-range psionic frequency embedding, Admiral?”

     Komack’s expression instantly hardened. _“Commander, I don’t think that—.”_

     “And you must be aware that this research has been officially included as a Special Interest Investigation by your office, alongside the research into substance KA-12-167, also known as ambiguite.”

_“How did you come by this information, Commander?”_ Komack’s question was strained.

     Spock lifted his chin. “As a test subject myself with the KA project, and a ranking science specialist, I have authorization, sir.”

     “Wait a second,” McCoy spoke up. “Why would the Vulcans be developing a telepathic weapon?”

     “It is not intended as a weapon, Doctor,” Spock answered, “but as a method of remotely assisting with widespread trauma in the event of a natural disaster or for other altruistic uses. However, given the basic technological development, it would be straightforward to modify the signal to approximate _eshak_ instead.”

     “ _Eshak_?” McCoy asked.

     “The ability to kill using one’s mind,” Spock replied flatly.

     Scott leaned forward. “Ah dinnae ken, sir. So, either th’ research was stolen an’ modified by the factions in that system or—.”

     “Or it had been given away,” Jim finished quietly.

     On-screen, Komack’s cheek twitched. _“I will review the security protocols for that particular investigation, however,”_ he paused, _“you realize, Mr. Spock, that all this is speculation which, I believe, is why you neglected to include it in your official report.”_

     Under the table, Spock’s hands clenched into fists. “My research is still ongoing, but I maintain that the Aliz’it and Ka’al’erion on La’ripka base had no knowledge of the weapon, sir. Their confusion and astonishment were real. It was not their doing, and any insistence on their culpability by the system governments may indicate collusion in the incident or, at the least, be an attempt to deflect our further investigation.”

_“In your opinion, Commander,”_ Komack contended agitatedly. _“An opinion that cannot be verified, as your focused actions to ensure Captain Kirk’s safety failed to salvage your two other crewmembers or any corroborating record of the incident.”_

    An angry murmur cascaded around the room, and, next to Spock, Uhura half-rose from her seat. Jim appeared shell-shocked and instead of responding, he simply slumped further into his seat. McCoy’s concerned gaze, which had shifted to regard the captain, snapped back to Spock as the Vulcan replied icily, “My actions were logical, Admiral, unlike your orders directing this ship into a completely unsecured situation.”

_“Is that so, Commander?”_ Komack asked dangerously.

     Spock lifted his chin, his expression wholly uncontrolled. “If the caliber of the intelligence that sent us into the Doroni system and to a false negotiation table is pervasive, then I must admit I do not hold confidence that what happened before will not be repeated.”

     Komack’s expression contorted as Jim stood up abruptly. “Commander—,” the captain began.

     Spock raised his voice. He felt grimly satisfied in his outburst, much as it had felt to crush the plastiform computer casing beneath his bare hands. “The weapon’s presence indicates a Starfleet insider’s knowledge and access.”

     “Commander Spock, you will stand down!” Jim slammed his fist on the table. He grimaced, looking into the viewer. “Admiral, I apologize for my first officer’s behavior. I can only blame it on stress from his recent injuries.” He threw a glare in Spock’s direction, but his eyes barely met the Vulcan’s.

     Komack leaned back in his seat. _“I’m finding it more and more difficult to simply overlook such insubordination, Captain. From both of you.”_

    “It won’t happen again, sir,” Jim said stiffly.

     Komack huffed, his expression shifting between anger and something else, his tone clipped. “ _I have reason to expect another attempt at negotiation, this time involving_ legitimate _parties. Your orders are to maintain status and position until further notice. Report all in-system contacts and activity immediately, particularly communication. If they request our assistance, we shall provide it. Komack out.”_

     The screens blanked, and the shocked silence became rising noise, mirrored by growing tension and dismay projected from human minds. Jim winced and raised his hands, but the gesture lacked his normal surety.

     The clamor subsided anyway, but Spock’s emotions were still dark and roiling in the wake of the flashing confrontation, fists still held tightly as he tried to look anywhere but at the captain or at his fellow officers. Spock recognized the sick feelings churning his insides: primitive _want_ followed by a wave of protective heat. _Heat_. It was as he had feared, and the unknown had suddenly solidified into a cruel, certain reality with his captain as the focal point of his need; his captain, who was now staring at Spock with something like helplessness even as he addressed the others in the room.

     “We have our orders,” Jim said tightly. “Regardless of personal opinion, there’s every reason to suggest that, at the least, we can gather intelligence that would support a resumption of negotiations.” He paused, his head bowing briefly before coming up again, hazel eyes hard. “Return to stations. Mr. Spock, I want a word with you. Right now.”

     The swift retreat of the other crewmembers might have been comical if it weren’t for this new knowledge, this latent heat in Spock’s blood and the fierce ache beyond the shield protecting the severed bondspace. If it weren’t for the open disbelief and trepidation on McCoy’s face as the doctor hesitated near Jim’s side. Spock looked away, hearing the doctor’s low murmur clearly.

     “Jim, are you sure about this? I don’t think that—.”

     “Goddammit, Doctor, get the hell out!” Jim snapped loudly, and McCoy’s footsteps were loud in the following glacial silence, the swipe and swish of the door even louder, and Spock closed his eyes briefly as he heard Jim’s fingers tap a pattern into the tabletop console and the locked door softly beeped in response.

     They were alone, invisible tension wrinkling the air between them, and it was all Spock could do to recover the appearance of impassivity as his gaze slowly moved to his _t’hy’la_. Jim’s expression was shifting rapidly, his fingers curling and then releasing, his shoulders tensing as he pressed his lips together, swallowing audibly.

   “What was that?” Jim’s voice had, impossibly, lost every bit of aggression, had become gentle and searching, and Spock felt his own breath leave him in an audible hiss as the captain moved cautiously around the edge of the table. The Vulcan was not prepared for this; he could handle anger, violence, blame, _anything_ but this inviting softness. Or was he imagining it?

     “Spock.”

     There was the threat of an even closer approach in the calm tenor, and Spock rose quickly, practically stumbling from his seat and toward the wall. “No.”

     “I don’t care about Komack.” Jim had frozen as Spock had spoken, and the captain was standing with his hands held out in front of him, palms down, visibly trembling. “I have my own opinion as to his motivations, but I want to know why you did that just now. Why you didn’t tell me ahead of time what you’d—. You don’t…do things like that, Spock, unless—.” He paused, his eyes very bright. The searching look was powerful and touched by desperation and Jim seemed to slowly gather himself, his hands dropping to his sides, his posture straightening, the familiar mask of command descending as if in last resort.

     “I know that I should have come to you,” Jim continued flatly. “Or at least opened up an avenue of communication after we saw each other in sickbay.” He furrowed his brow. “I did look through your report, and especially the part where you were asked, repeatedly it seemed, about hybrid species and the Federation’s treatment of them.”

     Spock focused on his own breathing, trying to organize his thoughts into something useful. “Yes, Captain,” he replied with halting slowness and deliberate formalism. “I found that…point most interesting. It seemed as though they were requesting asylum for an oppressed hybrid population, but the attack prevented any further questions.”

     “And now we might never get any real answers.” Jim frowned. “McCoy said something before we left about this whole situation being all too convenient, and in light of what you may have uncovered I’m inclined to agree.” He licked his lips, looking away. “A mysterious request summoning us to an unlikely alliance, a situation that seems too good to be true, and people who are anything but combatants—.” His eyes flicked to Spock’s as he trailed off.

     “An opportunity too important to ignore,” Spock offered, “for any side.”

     “So they took control in a coup, and leveraged it all on a single attempt to get Federation help?” Jim shook his head. “I believe you when you said those people on the base didn’t know what was killing them. So, there are two questions outstanding: first, how did that weapon end up in the hands of the establishment, and, second, why does Komack think that the establishment will even want Federation help?” He huffed. “Actually, third: are they really in the mind to establish peace in the system at all?”

   Spock shifted his stance awkwardly as Jim peered at him. The captain added, “I know you don’t like to admit to guesswork, but I’m asking for it now.”

     “I then venture that the establishment, specifically the prior Aliz’it and Ka’al’erion governments, initiated the attack to rid itself of a resurgent dissident population once and for all. The timing of the attack and our presence there suggests that whomever supplied the weapon to the establishment may have had an ulterior motive. Either to specifically target you, or to involve the Federation in what would appear to be a terrorist act in order to justify further Starfleet activity here.”

     “So they want us to stay. Why?”

     The adamancy in the captain’s expression was so vivid that Spock could remember the brightness of the emotion within his own mind. He steeled himself against his eidetic memory and answered, “Perhaps the answer lies in a balance between the large dilithium deposits within the system boundaries and in the acquisition of advanced weaponry that would both dissuade future rebellion and discourage dissent. It would not be the first time that two disparate governments decided to work together in order to achieve power.”

     Spock took a breath, finding it easier to speak in this way: following the script of their natural analytical affinity. “And if the protection of a hybrid population caused the youth of both planets to be brought together, it is logical to infer that the governments might have been motivated to work together to exploit it in the first place.”

     Jim hummed, rubbing a hand over his chin. “So, someone in Starfleet may have provided that information in order to secure Federation interests here.” It was not a question, and there was no surprise in Jim’s voice. “I figured that’s where you were going with Komack, but I almost couldn’t believe you’d just blurt it out like that.” He grimaced. “Taking it a step further, I shouldn’t be shocked it was us sent here, then. And how so many specifics about your personal background seemed to be common knowledge. We may have been set up just as surely as Nuli Farr and Diriu Li’Ssuk.”

     “Speculation,” Spock murmured. “The facts barely support such conjecture.”

     “But we got there anyway,” Jim said dryly.

     Spock bit his lower lip. “I have sent a communiqué to my father in an official capacity, requesting any information he might have regarding the Vulcan psionic research and Starfleet access to it. He is affiliated with the Federation diplomatic corps.”

     The captain blinked rapidly, asking absently, “Your father?” He flinched, his eyes darting back and forth and Spock could almost envision the human’s thoughts shifting unexpectedly. “I do remember something about—. _Vre’kasht_? Because of my involvement on Vulcan?”

     “Because of McCoy’s,” Spock corrected weakly. “Though the terminology is correct.” He swallowed. “I may not receive a response, however my position in Starfleet may allow for purely professional courtesy.”

     Jim’s eyes were focused elsewhere. “I should have come to you—.” He trailed off, wincing, and his expression fell again to something gentler and longing and yet, unfulfilled.

     Silence stretched, and then Jim rawly uttered, “It’s hard to admit that I’m afraid, and completely ridiculous to admit that I’m afraid of you. Everything in me insists that I have no reason to be afraid of you and yet there’s something—.” He winced again. “I know I said we have to carry on, but I’ve found that I have to know—.” Jim trailed off again, and let out a small, frustrated noise.

     Spock watched him, watched the dynamic play of emotion across his _t’hy’la_ ’s face and through hazel eyes, remembering again how those scintillating feelings had sung through his own mind. Something of his thoughts must have shown in his expression because Jim leaned forward suddenly.

     “There was something more, wasn’t there, between us? What was it?”

     Spock took a small step backwards, feeling the bulkhead brush his body in an instinctive retreat, the low heat in his blood reminding him of the danger here.

     Jim’s eyes averted as he slid his hands together fitfully. “I saw you in my dreams, and I thought…it seemed real, and then I woke up and there was nothing but pain. It hurts, and yet I remember what it was to be close to you. I know that you saved me, but I can’t get beyond this…fear of you. This was more than just a link.” He had been nearly babbling, but the last sentence was spoken with near-accusatory certainty. “Wasn’t it?”

     Spock met his eyes squarely. “It was.”

     “And you severed it.” The accusation was there, sharp and cutting.

     Spock felt himself flinch. “I—.”

     Jim pressed, “You were forced to, I know. And without my consent.”

     Spock’s breath left him again, and in the cold creep of helpless guilt, the heat suffusing his veins seemed to dissipate. “There was no time. I fully accept responsibility. I—.” His words were clipped, foolish.

     “I remember hating you for what you did,” Jim replied breathlessly. There was wetness in his eyes and he was staring over Spock’s shoulder at some random point, his words tumbling together, spilling out. The place where their bond had been was a jet of pain, despite the shield.

     “I didn’t understand; all I knew was that it was gone and you had done it.” Jim caught himself, one hand moving slowly to cover his mouth, sliding down over his chin to his throat. “I love…I loved—.” He stared at Spock, his eyes tormented. “I remember that I loved you.”

     “Jim.” It was a plea, and a warning.

     “I remember…some of it, most of it, maybe. And where you were is just…blank now. Empty.” Jim blinked. “There’s no word for what it is. I’m so angry, Spock. And I know that you had to do it, but the absence…the pain is—.”

     “I beg your forgiveness,” Spock whispered. “ _Ni’droi’ik nar-tor, t’hy’la_.” He meant it for what had happened, and for what was surely to come.

     Jim stared at him, his hand at his throat tentatively moving forward, and then more deliberately so. Reaching out, offering… .

     The piercing whistle of the intercom caused them both to flinch, and Jim’s hand diverted to the tabletop comm unit.

     “Kirk here.”

_“Uhura, Captain. We’ve received a hail from an Aliz’it ship.”_

     “Acknowledged, Lieutenant. Have they crossed the system boundary?”

_“Negative, sir. The ship came out of warp and is holding within the system boundary beyond weapons range. No hostile indications.”_

     “On my way. Kirk out.” Jim thumbed the control and stepped back, shaking his head, his eyes meeting Spock’s again. “I forgive you,” he said. “Of course, I forgive you but I can’t—. I need—.” He straightened, and the command mask descended once more. “There’s no time. When this is over, we can decide…we can decide if we’ll continue in this way or if something will change.” He swallowed. “I need you on the bridge.”

     Spock silently mimicked his captain’s resolved posture, drawing on Jim’s visual presence to force control over his own features, to relax his hands and his shoulders, to hide the newly discovered death simmering within his body. “Yes, Captain,” he pronounced carefully.

     Jim nodded and disabled the lock, moving around the table toward the door, his steps purposeful, and only Spock could recognize the lingering apprehension that lined the captain’s face. The Vulcan followed, but kept a distance between them. Duty would be their shield.

 

 


	13. These Silent Walls Between Us

Chapter Thirteen: These Silent Walls Between Us

 

     The sense of ambient psionic presence on the bridge was suffused with powerful anticipation and a subtle undercurrent of angry passion. Concealed behind grim and determined human countenances boasting near-Vulcan stoicism, it sung as something heated and fierce along Spock’s electrified nerve endings, reinforcing his body’s simmering drives.

     The Vulcan came to stand at his usual place alongside his captain’s chair, sensing the striking absence of a comparable intensity in his _t’hy’la_. Jim’s face was creased with something ambiguous, something unresolved, and his muscles were curled with something other than heightened readiness.

     It was weakness, however well hidden, and protectiveness bordering on primal possessiveness erupted through Spock’s mind. The Vulcan felt his face tighten in a near-grimace as he forcefully suppressed both dangerous emotions, his teeth grinding together. Jim was not his bondmate. Jim’s body and mind were not Spock’s to share, and, especially in this burgeoning crisis, Spock had to remember his own place: an officer carrying the appearance of a friend, and nowhere could there be even a hint of intimate solicitous attention.

     The captain’s subdued movements seemed uncomfortably halting as he leaned forward in the center seat, peering at the snub-nosed battleship that was just now rotating into their plane.

     “Mr. Sulu, are they still holding within the system boundary?” Jim asked in clipped tones.

     “Yes, sir,” Sulu replied crisply. “Their weapons are offline and their shields are down. Latest scans confirm that no other ships are in the vicinity, and there are no indications of unexpected energy readings that might correspond to the weapon used on La’ripka.”

     Jim grunted, rubbing his chin with his right hand as he glanced up at his first officer. “Analysis, Mr. Spock?”

     Spock straightened, locking his hands tightly behind his back and ignoring the radiating ache that shivered down his left arm. “Their position appears to confirm non-hostile intentions, Captain.”

     “It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” Jim shifted in his seat, edging toward the Vulcan with the appearance of unconscious intent. “Komack said to expect overtures, but this seems—,” he paused, “somehow too convenient.” Jim again glanced up at Spock, lowering his voice as he added, “Just like Bones has been cautioning all along.”

     Spock inclined his head silently, well aware of other things recently subjected to the doctor’s disapproval and, it seemed, just as validly so.

     “Let me know if you sense anything.” Jim’s expression hardened as he faced the viewscreen again, speaking louder. “I’m interested in hearing for myself their explanation for what happened on La’ripka.”

     A subtle murmur of assent echoed around the bridge, and Spock lifted his chin, facing stolidly forward. Control was elusive and growing ever further from his grasp: slippery, pervasive emotion pulsing defiantly in time with the concentrated heat in his body. It occurred to the Vulcan that he might not have much time: days, hours even, instead of weeks. He could sense the acceleration, perhaps fueled by his _t’hy’la_ ’s proximity and distress; perhaps exacerbated by Jim’s impassioned humanity; perhaps sealed by the nature of what had happened between them already at the _kalifee_. It was an urge toward survival: primitive drives insisting on a full consummation that had been, so far, firmly denied.

     “Patch me through, Uhura.” Jim’s voice was both a balm and a prize, and it was everything Spock could do to maintain his own composure.

     “Aye, Captain,” the communications officer replied immediately, and a gentle beep echoed through the tense atmosphere on the bridge as the channel cleared and the image on the viewscreen wavered into the brilliant, clean lines of the Aliz’it bridge.

     A single being sat in a large chair, under an artistic light fixture that arched imperiously overhead, and Spock recognized the creature as male by his large, folded wings. Broader and less translucent than Nuli Farr’s had been, the sweeping set of the appendages marked this male as more advanced in age. Black eyes were rimmed with reflecting silver paint, and the close-fitting suit was set with garishly colorful designs, molded over the male’s stouter physique. The small sections of exposed skin were obscured with other swaths of the opaque, metallic paint, as if to hide the revelation of telltale shifting colors beneath.

     “I am Captain James T. Kirk, commanding the Federation starship _Enterprise_ ,” Jim began. “To whom am I speaking?”

     The being’s head bobbed in a smooth gesture, a softly sibilant hiss emerging, immediately overlain by the clipped male tones of the translator computer. “ _I am Boro Harr, commander of the_ Yi’pera _. I contact you in the interests of peace, despite the tragedy that so recently occurred_.”

     The translator continued speaking well after the being had finished, and Spock saw Boro Harr slowly peer around the _Enterprise_ ’s bridge, his wings fluttering and thin shoulders drawing up as the faintest shade of flashing color appeared from beneath the concealing paint. Evidently, the careful, diplomatic language and calculated computerized delivery did not accurately reflect the being’s true emotional expression.

     Jim waited patiently, the captain’s own face revealing nothing. “It was indeed a tragedy,” he agreed. “For which a satisfactory explanation has yet to be given.”

     Boro Harr’s long fingers curled, talons sharp against the smooth surface of the chair. “ _With respect, Captain, a full explanation has been given to your government, and accepted. Insurgents displeased with our two government’s plans for a Starfleet-assisted negotiation launched a well-timed attack to disable our combined forces, allowing the dissidents to intercept your approach and attempt to permanently destroy our hopes of a relationship with the Federation_.” Boro Harr’s head tilted, its teeth bared slightly. “ _We can be grateful that they only managed to destroy themselves_.”

     “The weapon used was somewhat…creative,” Jim said dryly. “Surely beyond the reach of mere insurgents.”

     Boro Harr remained silent for a full seventeen seconds, though his hands curled even tighter and the flash of color on the slivers of exposed skin was even brighter. “ _They were of our people, Captain, and our people cannot be underestimated_ ,” he said finally, the sibilant hiss turned more guttural even as the translation remained defiantly pleasant. “ _I can only apologize for our failure to regain control more quickly_.”

     “I was on La’ripka base, Commander,” Jim said.

     “ _You and your first officer_ ,” Boro Harr replied, his eyes fastening on Spock. “ _It is most interesting that you were able to escape unharmed_.” A clicking noise from the back of his throat underlay the translation. “ _And fortunate, yes?_ ”

     For the first time, Jim’s command tone faltered and his own fingers curled over the armrests of the center seat. “I would not say we were unharmed, Commander,” he said uneasily.

     Spock’s hands moved from their firm clasp to hover in subconscious readiness at his sides. His eyes narrowed and he felt his expression tighten as he stared an unabashed challenge at the Aliz’it.

     The alien’s dark gaze did not waver from him, even as he addressed the captain, “ _My purpose here is to request your presence at our genuine negotiations. We request your advice and your counsel, and we request your Federation’s interest as a potential partner in trade_.”

     Jim loosened his grip on the chair, leaning back and crossing his legs. “I was on La’ripka base,” he repeated, his voice stronger, “and I remain unsatisfied by the explanation given for the circumstances of the attack.”

     “ _Captain_ ,” hissed Boro Harr.

     Jim raised a hand. “However, my leadership has ordered my participation in negotiations, if requested to do so, and I will, in the interests of peace, comply. I must inform you, however, that Federation involvement as a trade partner may be contingent on a full investigation as to the events that transpired on La’ripka, given that Starfleet personnel lost their lives in the attack.”

     Boro Harr’s teeth appeared again. “ _Yes, Captain, of course. You personally will be present? And your first officer?_ ”

     Jim hesitated, and the alien commander persisted, “ _He appears as a warrior. With respect._ ” A slender hand lifted in an unfamiliar gesture. “ _He will come, and you, Captain. Is this agreeable?_ ”

     Jim’s second hesitation was more noticeable. “Yes,” he said finally. “Send the appropriate information and I will advise my leadership.”

     “ _Very good, Captain_ ,” Boro Harr grated. “ _We will expect your arrival, with gratitude and expectation of much glory._ ”

     The feed cut out sharply, and Spock heard Uhura’s soft exclamation of frustrated surprise. “I’m sorry, Captain,” she said, her hands moving over her board. “They cut transmission.”

     Jim didn’t respond, and, on-screen, the other ship slowly rotated and began a steady retreat. Aware of his captain’s eyes on him, Spock blinked and deliberately relaxed his body, his expression shifting to an approximation of impassivity.

     “The Aliz’it ship has forwarded an encrypted packet, sir,” Uhura said, her voice colored with obvious discontentment.

     Jim frowned, his gaze shifting to the star-filled screen. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Send it down to my quarters and,” he cleared his throat, “contact Admiral Komack at Command. Top priority and scramble.”

     Uhura’s slight pause spoke volumes, especially to Spock’s Vulcan sense of subtlety, and the fierce tautness of her tone when she finally answered was almost jarring. “Yes, Captain.”

     The barest grimace on the captain’s face confirmed that he heard the nuances held in her reply, and, indeed, she was not alone in her emotions. Spock could sense the swelling disapproval from across the bridge, slipping easily past his shields.

     “Mr. Spock,” Jim said quietly. “You’re with me. Mr. Sulu, you have the conn.”

     “Aye,” Sulu acknowledged, turning from the helm just enough to nod toward his commanding officers, his mouth a firm line.

     Jim stood, straightening his tunic.

     “Captain!” exclaimed Ensign Sato, standing at attention near the Engineering station. “Sir, you can’t—! Not after—!” His words stopped abruptly, the ambient chatter of the bridge controls filling the sudden human silence. Jim halted two steps from the young man.

     Sato gathered himself. “Sir,” he began again, his voice steadier. “I request permission to accompany you. I hold a Security-Three classification and can—.”

     Jim smiled gently, lifting a hand to halt the engineer’s words. “Ensign, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not taking volunteers. After what happened before—.”

     Sato interrupted, “Sir it is _because_ of what happened before that I’m asking to go with you!” His pale skin was flushed, his posture ramrod straight.

     Jim nodded and glanced around the bridge, undoubtedly seeing in the expressions of his officers what Spock could so acutely perceive. Broad shoulders clad in gold rose and fell. “I understand, Mr. Sato,” Jim said, his tone raised to include the entire bridge. His gaze fell on Uhura, whose right hand was clenched uncharacteristically in a fist. “I do understand.” He licked his lips and stepped past Spock to the center seat, where he reached out and punched the intercom.

     “This is the Captain.”

     It was all Spock could do to simply turn so that his back was no longer toward his friend. Jim’s arm had brushed his as he had passed, as close as they had ever been since returning to the ship. Arm to arm, mere fabric separating skin, and Spock struggled to contain the wavering barrier around the lost bond. The pain there molded to the heat trembling in his blood: a helpless emotional longing, a deep-seated grief that was desperate to be released, desperate to be negated. This man, this friend, this _home_ was as lost to him now as Vulcan was.

     Jim continued, his voice reaching every part of the ship, “We have been contacted by Doroni system governments and it has been reported that negotiations for peace will move forward. Federation involvement has been requested and, pending approval by Command, I and Commander Spock will again act as Starfleet representatives.”

     Around the bridge, the humans were rapt, listening attentively as their emotions smoldered wholly uncontrolled beneath expressions that were no longer guarded: anger for what had befallen their shipmates and their command team, deep-seated loyalty to their captain; frustration at a situation that seemed more and more inexplicable by the day. Spock felt a sudden surge of bitterness at the unapologetic transparency of their feeling.

     Next to the command chair, Jim crossed his arms. “I fully understand the risks involved; I do not take them lightly. If we are ordered to proceed, we will do so not only to continue to act in the interests of peace, but also to find the truth. Our fallen crewmembers will not have died in vain.”

     Spock watched his _t’hy’la_ , listening to the familiar tones of Jim’s voice, buffeted by the powerful ambience of the emotional landscape around him. It was, finally, useless for him to continue to struggle against it.

     The captain frowned. “I will not risk additional lives. If we are to proceed, I expect you all to continue to do your jobs. The command team is expendable, but this ship and this crew are not.” Jim met Spock’s eyes. “Captain out.” He toggled the intercom switch and jerked his head in the direction of the turbolift. “Spock.”

     “Yes, sir.”

     “Lieutenant Uhura, when you get Komack, patch him through to my quarters.”

     “Aye, Captain.”

     Spock followed Jim into the turbolift, walking just behind his captain and turning at his side to face the closing doors. The greater situation seemed to swirl around them, visible in Jim’s strained expression and in the yellow alert still flashing overhead as the lift began to move, but Spock focused on one simple thing: something ancient and infinitely compelling. Death was inescapable, the blood fever approaching quickly and inexorably, but its brutal advance was mitigated by another, more important truth. This man, this human, was _t’hy’la_ , and Spock would cling to that long-honored definition. Spock would accompany Jim; he would defend him; the Vulcan would find relief in the acceptance of strong emotion instead of its suppression. This mission would be his penance and his honor and Spock would see his _t’hy’la_ return safely despite all foreboding indications of subterfuge.

     The Vulcan turned his head to see curious hazel eyes staring at him, and it was only then that Spock realized that the veneer of impassivity had fully retreated from his features. Emotion curled through him: both his own and his shipmates’, and Spock did not recoil from it; instead, he embraced it, and it seemed to blend in with the heat simmering in his veins, yielding and accepting what was to come. It was strangely… _freeing_.

     “Spock, are you—?” Jim shook his head. “Are you alright? You look—.”

     “I am functional, Captain.” Spock realized that even his own voice had changed, carrying looser and more fluidly over the Standard syllables. All strictures, it seemed, were relaxed.

     “I’m sure you are,” Jim said. “But—.” He chewed his lip and sighed. “Never mind.” He looked away briefly. “There’s no chance Komack’s going to wait on this.” The captain’s forehead creased. “This is a bad idea, and I know it and you know it. The crew knows it. Why the hell are we going through with it?”

     Spock stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “As you said, sir, there are questions in need of answers.”

     Jim sniffed loudly as the turbolift slowed. “The Aliz’it and Ka’al’erion are full of shit, but I suppose I expect as much from them, given their circumstances and history. Komack’s motives are a whole other story. And that weapon—.”

     “It is not likely that another attack would involve the use of the psionic weapon,” Spock said.

     “I agree,” Jim muttered darkly as the doors slid open. “They’ll probably just shoot us this time. The _Enterprise_ , on the other hand—.”

     “Well, at least we’re on the same page now about you getting yourself into trouble!” McCoy’s angry bark brought Jim up short as he exited the lift, Spock immediately behind him.

     The doctor had been waiting for them. “Jim, there’s no way you can go out there again! You have to tell Komack—.”

     “Stow it, Doctor,” the captain interrupted tersely, recovering and stalking around his friend and toward his quarters.

     McCoy scowled, but followed a few paces behind, walking stiffly next to Spock as the Vulcan stared straight ahead, peripherally aware of the physician’s scrutiny of him.

     “I can’t believe you’re letting Jim do this,” the doctor whispered intently. “It doesn’t make any sense for him to do this.”

   “It is not my decision,” Spock returned.

     “You’re second-in-command!” McCoy hissed. “You can—.”

     “We do not yet have our orders,” Spock said, looking coldly at the doctor. “And the captain is of suitable fitness, as you yourself specified.”

    “I don’t know about that,” McCoy said, tilting his head at the Vulcan. “Or about you. You look like you did on Vulcan,” he said frankly, his eyes narrowed. “Or when you threw that soup at Christine.”

     “Perhaps you should keep that comparison in mind, Doctor,” Spock said icily.

     “What?” McCoy stopped in his tracks just as Jim reached the door to his quarters. “Jim—.”

     The captain glanced pointedly up and down the presently deserted corridor, the lines in his face seeming all too prominent under the bright lights. “Let’s take this inside, gentlemen; I’d like to get it over with and crew morale is already shot to hell.”

     Spock opened his mouth to reply, but the doctor spoke first. “No,” McCoy said firmly. “I need to have a private chat with your second-in-command.” He peered challengingly at the Vulcan. “Care to humor me, Mr. Spock? Your quarters are more convenient than sickbay.”

     Jim glanced at Spock, and the Vulcan took an abortive step forward at the shocking tiredness in his _t’hy’la_ ’s eyes. The captain’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Do I want to know, Bones?” Jim asked softly.

     “You probably do already, Jim,” McCoy answered, and the captain grimaced, panic flashing across his face before his expression hardened. Jim hit the panel next to his door, entering without another word.

     Spock remained where he was, standing stiffly in the middle of the corridor. The closing of the captain’s door, separating them, sparked something hot and vengeful inside of him and, with his controls relinquished, he knew that his own expression was helplessly reflective. McCoy moved purposefully to the door next to Jim’s, waiting.

     “Spock?” he prompted.

     “A medical order, Doctor?”

     “Not yet,” McCoy answered carefully.

     Spock lifted his chin in a characteristic gesture that used to hold dignity and now only exhibited defiance, walking forward to press the key panel and stepping into the dry heat of his cabin without hesitation. Focused on the doctor’s presence behind him, he simply noted the flashing light on his terminal, indicating receipt of a personal message.

     McCoy cleared his throat as the door slid closed. “How long?”

     Spock turned to face him, his hands loose at his sides. “Clarify.”

     “You’re in _pon farr_ again,” McCoy stated baldly. “I don’t need my scanner to confirm it; it’s written all over your face. I should’ve figured it out when you blew up at Komack, but seeing you here, now, it’s,” he sighed, “only obvious. It’s moving quicker this time, isn’t it?”

     Spock didn’t reply and McCoy didn’t try to approach any closer.

     “The fact that you haven’t said anything,” continued the doctor, “implies that you’ve already given up any hope of surviving it this time. And, given that implication, I don’t even want to speculate on why you aren’t actively opposing Jim’s headlong rush into what’s sure to be another assassination attempt.”

     “It is not a ‘rush’, Doctor, but will shortly be an order. And, as the captain has stated, there are pressing reasons for moving forward with this mission.”

     McCoy leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Attempted suicide is grounds for being declared psychologically unfit.”

     “My participation in this mission is not attempted suicide.”

     “Isn’t it? You’re expecting to die!”

     “I will die because of a terminal condition that cannot be resolved, not because of an intention or a wish to do so,” Spock retorted icily. “I do not want to die, Doctor, I have simply accepted that I shall do so. It is logical.”

     “There’s nothing logical about it!” McCoy exclaimed. “We haven’t tried anything yet; there could be a way—.”

     “There is not,” Spock interrupted firmly. “And there is no time. The onset of symptoms has been, as you observed, quite acute. This mission must take precedence, and it is my wish to serve while I retain the capacity to do so.”

     McCoy pointed at the door. “I want to do a full exam. Right now.”

     Spock nearly frowned. “If you wish to declare me unfit, then do so. But I must remind you that my presence on the last away party prevented Jim’s death. Keeping me here will jeopardize his safety.”

     “Shit.” McCoy scowled mightily, his blue eyes darting back and forth before meeting Spock’s gaze imploringly. “Spock, there has to be something you can do! Another wife? Your planet—.”

     “I am _vre’kasht_ , Doctor,” the Vulcan replied flatly. “My planet will do nothing for me.”

     “Your family might—.”

     “My family will not.”

     “Maybe someone onboard?” McCoy said desperately. He winced. “Hell, Spock, if you just need to—.” He rubbed a hand nervously over the side of his face. “Dammit, I’ll—. I mean, I can—.”

     Spock closed his eyes briefly. “No. As you may have surmised, it is not simply a question of physical release.”

     “I haven’t fucking surmised much of anything, have I?” McCoy blurted loudly. “But I’m not going to give up. You’ve come back from this once before. What if you…what if you fought someone again? I’ll volunteer, or Jim?”

     The expression that crossed Spock’s face must have been terrifying because the doctor took a step back.

     “I will not touch Jim again,” the Vulcan asserted. “After what I—. After I forced his mind, I—.” His hands were tight fists; he heard his knuckles crack. “I will not harm my _t’hy’la_.”

     “I know,” McCoy said, raising his hands. “I know; I didn’t mean—.” He trailed off.

     With effort, Spock relaxed his hands. “There is nothing to be done, Doctor. Allow me this remaining dignity.”

     McCoy stared at him, and the silence was thick with the man’s emotion: _realization, anger, disbelief, helplessness._ “What am I going to tell Jim?”

     “There is no need to tell him anything at this time. The mission must take precedence.”

     “And then when he has to watch you die?”

     “He will not have to watch. I shall instigate a trance similar to the _tow-kath_.” Spock did not add that he doubted his ability to do so, even now. It would not matter; there would be a way.

     “You’ve got this all figured out, haven’t you?” McCoy said glumly.

     “On the contrary,” Spock admitted. He lowered his eyes. “But I shall ensure Jim’s safety. I shall protect him this time; you have my word.”

     McCoy mumbled something unintelligible, even to Vulcan hearing, and both men looked up as the shared bathroom door slid open. The captain stood on the far side, in the open doorway to his own quarters. He appeared resolved, but the normal energetic dynamism of his features was diminished, his shoulders still slumped.

     “Are you finished?” Jim asked.

     McCoy licked his lips. “Yeah,” he answered. “I’ve got what I need.”

     Jim’s eyes flicked to Spock before he tilted his head in the direction of his quarters. “Come in, both of you.”

     Spock moved first, preceding McCoy into the bracing, relative chill of the captain’s quarters.

     “Komack’s orders are short and sweet. And completely expected,” Jim said crisply, moving to stand on the opposite side of his desk from his two friends. “And I glanced through the proposed conditions sent by the Doroni governments. Spock, you and I will take a shuttlecraft into the system, as before, but this time we’re meeting on the third planet.”

     Spock clasped his hands behind his back. “The surface of Epsilon Doroni III was largely destroyed at the onset of the war between the Aliz’it and the Ka’al’erion in a colonization dispute.”

     Jim nodded. “Yes. The atmosphere is only now suitable for habitation. Conducting negotiations there is apparently symbolic of each side’s willingness to move forward peaceably.” His lips twisted. “It makes it more difficult for us to get in and out, though. I’m going to order the _Enterprise_ to hold station at the solar normal boundary, just in case.”

     The captain looked at Spock. “I’m going to order a non-approach envelope around the ship while we’re away. I don’t want that weapon being used against the crew and your analysis suggested that it’s a proximal charge.” He sniffed. “Not that the Aliz’it or Ka’al’erion admitted to finding any remaining evidence for a device on La’ripka.”

     “They would not, in any case,” Spock said.

     “I agree with that.” Jim frowned. “We’re scheduled to depart in less than six hours, which doesn’t leave much time for strategy.”

     “Jim,” McCoy asked, “why doesn’t Komack just send another ship? After what happened to you, why are you being asked to go in again? I don’t want to keep repeating myself, especially since neither of you seem to be listening, but this whole thing seems too—.”

     “Convenient, yes, I know, Bones,” Jim replied. “Komack’s excuse for not sending in another ship was the risk: both to another ship and to the possible disruption of negotiations by the appearance of too much Starfleet muscle. And we’re already best acquainted with the situation.” He shrugged. “Plus, we’re the flagship and the Doroni seem to have demanded that kind of visible prestige.”

     “But—,” McCoy sputtered.

     “What’s wrong with Spock?” Jim interrupted, his gaze sharp.

     McCoy’s mouth twisted in a frown. “Nothing more than what’s wrong with you,” he said. “Stress and fatigue, mostly; I’m worried about a lack of recovery time after your injuries.”

     Jim lifted a hand tiredly as if to wave off a predictable rant as McCoy continued forcefully, “Which is why I’ll be coming with you.”

     “I can’t let you do that, Bones. It’s too—.”

     “You can, and you will,” retorted McCoy. “Or I’ll declare you both unfit and Komack’ll have no choice but to send in someone else.”

     “Bones—.”

     The doctor crossed his arms. “I mean it, Jim.”

     “Spock?” Jim looked pleadingly at the Vulcan.

     Spock and McCoy exchanged a significant glance, and the Vulcan, for once, had no difficulty interpreting the turbulent expression on the doctor’s face. “I do not object to the doctor’s presence on the shuttle,” Spock replied quietly.

     Jim let out a loud exhale. “Fine. Anything else I can do for you, Doctor?”

     “Negative, Captain,” McCoy sarcastically retorted as he threw a satisfied look at the Vulcan.

     Jim’s lip curled. “That’ll be all, then. Dismissed, Doctor.”

     McCoy rocked once on his toes, his eyes flicking again to Spock before he turned on his heel and left Jim’s quarters, leaving the command team alone.

     “Are you alright?” The sudden softening of the captain’s tone was instantly disarming.

     Spock steeled himself. “Yes, Captain.”

     “No, you’re not,” Jim said sadly.

     “And you?” Spock returned immediately. He did not intend it as a question to be answered, and Jim only lowered his eyes as he bent his head, both hands flat on his desk.

     Silence stretched, broken only by the soft sussuration of air moving through the ventilation system. Spock did not move, studying the burnished gold of his _t’hy’la_ ’s hair in the low light of the cabin. He knew how Jim’s hair felt, how it smelled; he knew its insistence on softly curling over the human’s forehead. A flare of heat in his veins brought with it a dangerous breath of arousal and Spock forced his gaze elsewhere.

     “No.” The belated response startled the Vulcan, and he glanced instinctively back to meet gleaming, hazel eyes.

     “No, I’m not alright,” said Jim. “And this isn’t helping; seeing you like this.”

     “I don’t understand,” Spock said haltingly.

     “No wonder Bones was itching for an examination,” Jim said, lifting his hands from the desk and slowly straightening. “I can read every nuance of your expression. It’s…disconcerting.”

     “I apologize.”

     “Don’t. You’ve done that already.” Jim visibly swallowed. “And, anyway, it’s probably my turn to ask forgiveness.”

     Spock felt his own brow furrow in an unfamiliar movement. “Sir, I do not—.”

     “You’re a mess. I’m a mess. You almost took off Komack’s head in that last conference call and I—.” Jim snorted lightly. “I feel… _tentative_ for the first time in my life.” He looked down at one of his hands, spreading his fingers experimentally. “No, actually, not for the first time.” Hazel eyes fastened on Spock again. “You remember Alfa-177, of course.”

     “Of course,” Spock repeated automatically. “The transporter malfunction that—.”

     “That split me in two,” Jim finished. “That’s the one.” He dropped his hand. “I feel like that again, although maybe not quite as bad.” He swallowed again. “And another difference is that I’m not sure where my other half went, except that it seems to have something to do with you.”

     Spock blinked, his lips parting.

     “Like I said,” Jim continued quickly, “you almost took off Komack’s head. He actually asked where you were during this latest comm.” The captain chuckled dryly. “I think he was almost wary; it would have been interesting to see what would have happened had Bones not dragged you off beforehand.”

     Jim took a small step to the side, the desk still separating them. “I can see that your controls are practically gone. You’re aggressive; I’m passive. You’re…boiling over and I’m fighting to hold on. We’ve always shared some kind of balance, you and I, haven’t we? And it’s the same now, except pushed to an extreme. When that link broke, you took something of me with you, didn’t you?”

     Spock’s mouth fell completely open. “I do not—.”

     “I know the explanation’s not exactly right, but I also can’t see it any other way. I feel resentful and angry and scared, but the more I think about it, the more I understand it as something missing, something that’s been taken away.” He shook his head sharply, blinking rapidly. “No. No, it’s something…that I want from you. You won’t give it to me, and I don’t…I don’t know what I would do if you did.”

     “Captain—.”

     “I know I asked for us to wait until it was all over in order to talk this out, but I need to understand something now.” Jim frowned. “There’s something driving me toward you despite every other instinct to maintain distance after what happened. There’s part of me cursing myself for being a masochistic fool or a deluded victim and another part desperate to just…just damn well _touch_ you and see what happens.” An unfamiliar fearful look crossed his eyes. “And I’m too much of a coward to take that leap.”

     Spock made a slight movement forward at the vulnerability in his friend’s eyes, his motion brought to a sudden stop as he saw Jim flinch.

     Jim continued, “Despite everything, I need your strength right now because I can’t seem to find mine. This mission has to be completed and I need that part of me that’s missing.”

     “I will be at your side, Jim,” Spock said brokenly. “I have been and always shall be.”

     “Forgive me,” Jim said thickly. “Forgive me for asking for this before either of us are ready. Forgive me for not seeing what I should have the first time around, on La’ripka, and forcing us to this place. Forgive me for not,” he grimaced, “for not being able to touch you, especially if we were what I think we were.” He paused, amending, “What I’m beginning to realize that we were. I have no defense against you, Spock; forgive me for wanting—for needing—one now. But I have to know the truth. I need you to tell me what I can’t quite yet remember.”

     The open emotion on his _t’hy’la_ ’s face was too much. “I cannot forgive where no transgression has occurred,” Spock replied inadequately, taking a reflexive step backward and turning away from his friend.

     It was to no avail, however, as Vulcan hearing could still discern Jim’s whispered question.

     “What were we to each other, Spock? You have to tell me.”

     “You are my friend,” the Vulcan answered immediately.

     “I asked what we _were_.” Jim’s tone was stronger, stubborn. “Lovers?”

     Spock took a breath, closing his eyes and trying to ignore his body’s response to such a word spoken by such a voice. A Terran word, and Jim was no doubt thinking solely of the Terran concept. Spock found it bitterly ironic that the concept of physical affection now seemed so simple compared with the endless implications entwined with the greater mental intimacy.

     “Yes.”

     “I thought so,” Jim replied, and Spock heard the soft swish of fabric as the captain shifted his position. “It explains the deeper…the sense of—. It explains why this is so hard. And the link—.” He trailed off, and Spock was suddenly weary of ambiguity, weary of half-truths. There would, ultimately, be no such half-truths in the fact of his own impending demise and in McCoy’s inevitable disclosure of the cause. If Spock did not explain this, now, then Jim might not, in the face of Spock’s death, be able to find closure, caught in a cycle of blurred recollection and self-castigation. Jim was correct; he needed to understand _this_ , as least.

     Spock squared his shoulders, still facing away. “We were…lovers, Jim, and more, we were…we are _t’hy’la_. I knew the touch of your skin and the taste of your mouth and you knew mine. It was correct of you to identify the emotion of love with what we shared.”

     He turned back to face an increasingly pale human. “You trusted me and saved my life and my sanity by allowing this link—this bond—between us. You provided me with a home and an identity when I had none. You fulfilled the ancient requirements; I, however, failed you. When you were attacked, I was unable to protect you without destroying that very connection to which I owed my life. I heard the sound of your voice as you screamed in pain. I hurt you, and I can still sense the agony that resides inside you. I violated your mind and our bond. I relinquished any claim I had to you, and any consolation. I can only hope to protect you now, on this mission, as I failed to do before.”

     Spock choked, looking away over Jim’s shoulder to the blank bulkhead behind him as the human’s face contorted in agitation. “Your discretion in this matter is well appreciated, Jim, and I thank you for it,” Spock said. “I have apparently not been as discrete, and the doctor has noted my inability to control. It is no matter. The conclusion of this mission will no doubt bring with it an unavoidable clarity for which you must not blame yourself.”

     “Spock—.”

     “I—.” Spock’s voice broke over the words. “ _Talukh nash-veh k’du, t’hy’la_. This is not your fault, nor your responsibility, but mine alone. Remember this.”

     Jim’s mouth was open, his eyes wide, his inner tumult radiating against Spock’s psi-perception. The human whispered, “Help me, Spock. Help me get back to where we were.”

     Spock’s breathing was coming in harsh gasps as he struggled for any remnant of control. He couldn’t touch Jim now, couldn’t open his mind to him, not with the pulse of _pon farr_ so close, not with the complete surrendering of control looming over him. Jim had not consented to _this_ ; he could not know the risks of _this_.

     “I cannot, Jim.”

     “Why?” Jim spread his hands in front of him, pleading. “Why not? I want—.”

     “I have my duty,” Spock said tightly. “And your memories of my violation are still strong.” He glanced pointedly at the desk that still separated them, seeing Jim’s eyes drop and his cheeks flush. “I have my duty now as your friend,” Spock emphasized, “and as a Starfleet officer. As your _t’hy’la_.”

     Jim’s head snapped up at the mention of the service, the hurt in his eyes vanishing into resolve as his expression hardened. He was still fighting. “After the mission, Spock. We have to—. I have to—. I won’t let this be the end of what we are to each other.”

     “After the mission.” Spock felt a small, forlorn smile curve his lips and heard Jim’s breath catch.

     The sound of the intercom was a shrill interruption, and Spock tilted his head as Uhura’s voice filled the cabin. “ _Captain Kirk to the briefing room. Captain Kirk, please report to the briefing room._ ”

     Jim toggled a control. “On my way, Lieutenant.” He closed the channel and looked at Spock, his jaw tense. “Stay alive,” he said firmly. “For me. Please.”

     Spock stared incredulously at his captain as the human moved stiffly around the desk, passing him and leaving the cabin, the door sliding shut smoothly in his wake.

     Jim must have been referring to the danger of the mission and not to the imminent return of the blood fever, but Spock also knew better than to underestimate the brilliant perception of this human. Certainly there were indications: Spock’s own sudden inability to control and his emotive aggressiveness. And then there was Jim’s own reticence…his _accommodation_ of Spock where there should still be driving anger and fear, even subconsciously, so soon after the attack.

     Spock, standing alone in his _t’hy’la_ ’s quarters, breathing in air still scented with the essence of his friend, considered the seemingly impossible notion that Jim was somehow responding to him as a bondmate might with the approaching throes of _pon farr_ : pacifying, soothing, calming, despite internal trepidation or uncertainty.

     Wincing, Spock closed his eyes, concentrating on the thinly shielded place where their connection had once flourished. It was intensely painful, seeped with horrific grief and haunted by eidetic memory of Jim’s agony, and Spock’s own, but it had not been, he knew, completely severed in Spock’s desperate response to the attack. The veiled fragment, the precious thing that he could no bring himself to finally destroy, had not shriveled and collapsed, but instead, as he examined it, had seemed to grow even stronger, perhaps fueled by the relentless energies of _pon farr_ itself: a last, unconscious attempt at survival, and another disgraceful encroachment on Jim’s mind.

     The grim realization firmed Spock’s resolve to not allow this, to not permit any further weakness or transgression. He would follow Jim, and protect him from the dangers that surely awaited them. And then, when they returned to the ship, Spock would protect him again from the fires that would threaten to consume both of them: everything they were, and everything they had been.

 

 

 

 


	14. Duty Be My Shield

Chapter Fourteen: Duty Be My Shield

 

     Spock’s quarters held Vulcan heat and Vulcan dryness, the trappings of his homeworld manifested richly in the red color draped over the bulkheads and the antique _asenoi_ flickering in the semi-darkness. The ceremonial weapons that had stood guard above the bed were gone, however, removed in the wake of the _kalifee_.

     Spock sat stiffly in the chair in front of his computer terminal, staring at Vulcan script cascading in placid, vertical lines. Perhaps it was the precise and uncolored phrasing of Sarek’s message that set its content in such stark relief, or perhaps it was simply that Spock was no longer able to fully suppress even the smallest of emotional responses. Now, he felt his expression tighten, his fingers curling over a stylus.

     The Vulcan Science Academy had not, apparently, been aware of Starfleet’s appropriation of the research on psionic energy transference. Spock shook his head slightly. The VSA had known of Starfleet’s interest in the technology and had willingly shared its basic principles, evidently with the understanding that the research was intended for its original, altruistic purpose and in the traditional open-access approach of Vulcan scientific advancement. The technology’s inclusion as a Special Interest Investigation and its apparent metamorphosis into a weapon that had then been either stolen or _tested_ were, in Sarek’s words, unprecedented and unacceptable. There was no further discussion of what steps Vulcan would take on the matter, however, and, of course, no nuance of satisfaction in Sarek’s reply. Spock’s father’s opinion on Starfleet had always been firmly negative, and for the very reason of its militarism. This situation would, no doubt, confirm that opinion.

     Unfamiliar and unchecked irritation curled his lip as Spock closed the message, considering that the confirmation of Starfleet’s military bearing was only the latest offense to his father’s dignity, and hardly the most significant validation of Sarek’s negative estimations regarding his half-human son.

     But instead of the reverting to his standard display, Spock saw a small blinking indicator appear at the bottom of the terminal screen, and his hands moved automatically to select the file. A secondary message, not attached to the formal, diplomatic reply, initiated, opening to his father’s image and Spock straightened involuntarily as Sarek began to speak, notably, in Standard.

 _“Spock. It was with some…alacrity…that your mother commented on your change in status: a degree of emotional response that was paralleled, interestingly, in the official clan notification presented by T’Pau. The Elder revealed satisfaction and disappointment; the latter, I must confess I share. However, I also must take responsibility. I shall inform you that T’Pau’s untoward expression is neither new, nor unexpected; in the Terran colloquial, I believe she has been ‘waiting for this’ for some time._ ”

     Spock’s lips parted as he studied his father’s face. Sarek’s features appeared characteristically impassive, but his eyes revealed some inner struggle, and there were telltale signs of stress and fatigue on the older Vulcan’s face: darkened circles under his eyes, a slackness to his jaw, a gauntness to his cheeks emphasized by slightly protruding cheekbones. Sarek’s voice, however, was the same.

     “ _I was aware, even in your youth, of your tendency to question the strictures of our culture. I assigned shame to this resistance, which merely cultivated it further and resulted in your eventual rejection of the Science Academy. I must emphasize that I do not fully accord your mother’s heritage with this fault. Logically, as now both my sons are considered_ vre-kasht _, the responsibility lies with me.”_

     Sarek drew a measured breath. “ _The initiation and maintenance of your link to T’Pring was not undertaken lightly. I knew that you would ultimately be forced to return home at your Time and, given the nature of your intended spouse and her family, would be strongly influenced to stay. Your resistance would be curtailed and your brother’s fate avoided. However, that did not come to pass. Logic informs me that you have found a bondmate, as you have survived the_ plak tow _, but it is not my intention to inquire further on that topic. I shall only say that, though our estrangement these past years is now permanent, I do not wish to suffer the complete loss of a child. I shall not sever the link between us, as I did not, I admit now, sever the one I share with your half-brother. Live long and prosper, Spock_.”

     The message vanished, reduced to a small, nondescript icon in the communications cloud as the standard display illuminated behind it. Spock stared at the screen, feeling his heart pounding in his side and helpless to regulate it. His father had never spoken to him in such a familiar fashion, even prior to their estrangement, and had never spoken of Sybok since his oldest son’s own public disavowal. Spock remembered his own mother’s vague language in her previous message regarding _complicated circumstances_. Eidetic memory replayed Sarek’s weakened appearance, and Spock considered if his father were ill. Logically, there was nothing Spock could do; a response to such a shockingly revealing message would be inappropriate, only serving to shamefully identify and potentially exacerbate his father’s weakness.

_“This is the Captain. Mr. Spock, report to the briefing room.”_

     The intercom echoed in the dry air, and Spock cleared his throat as he reached out to toggle the control to respond. “Spock here. On my way.”

     The Vulcan stood, stretching tight muscles where discomfort from his previous injuries still lurked. He adjusted his tunic, smoothing the blue fabric, and caught a glimpse of his own visage in the small vanity near the door. Spock paused, deliberately molding his features into a veneer of non-expression, struck by how revelatory his own eyes were. As his father’s had been. How very _human_ , after all.

 

~.~

 

     The briefing room door slid open smoothly, and Spock stepped forward to stand in parade rest just inside the room. Jim sat at the end of the large table, a PADD in front of him, his face still drawn and lined, but his hazel eyes sharp and focused, his mental energy taut and almost tangibly frenetic. Next to him sat Lieutenant Uhura, and Spock both sensed and saw fleeting emotion chase across her face before her expression settled into its usual professional composure.

     “Mr. Spock,” she said. “Thank you for joining us, sir.”

     Jim waved a hand to indicate the seat opposite the communications officer. “Sit down, Spock. Uhura’s got something pretty impressive here.”

     Spock hesitated, still reeling from the reverberations of _surprise_ and _worry_ that had flowed so strongly from Uhura and were now shuttered under an impressive display of human control. He understood her present restraint to be deliberate, in deference to Vulcan sensibilities and in response to whatever vulnerabilities he was unintentionally revealing. As always, she showed kindness and consideration toward him, exhibiting the kind of preternatural sensitivity that made her an excellent linguist and, indeed, a friend. He nodded slightly to her, an acknowledgement, and moved to take his seat.

     “The Doroni system factions were known, prior to our initial mission, to have achieved a high-level of operational success with regard to advanced interference and signal modification techniques,” Uhura began. “If you recall,” she glanced significantly at the captain, “I’d been concerned about the absence of a communications window in case of—.” She broke off, closing her eyes briefly at the unavoidable specter of the La’ripka tragedy, exhaling tightly before starting again, “The relevant thing, in the wake of what happened on the moon base and now looking forward to another incursion into the system, is that I’ve had a chance to more closely analyze the characteristic Doroni subspace interference spectra.”

     Uhura leaned forward, handing Spock a PADD. On it scrolled a series of plots and equations, with one in particular indicated in bold at the bottom of the report. She settled back in her seat, tapping her stylus on her own PADD.

     “As you can see, Mr. Spock, equation sixteen shows the base interferogram that they’re using, though they cycle it up and down with regard to the phase angle for greater coverage. It’s strong and pervasive, but it’s like,” she paused thoughtfully, “it’s like a quilt. There are holes, in a manner of speaking, and we can exploit them if we can narrow in on the signal.”

     Jim was nodding as Uhura continued, “The use of the psi-weapon effectively disrupted the interference pattern, probably by affecting the operators responsible for it in the first place. We were then able to finally get a conventional signal through, but,” Uhura tapped her PADD, “now I think I’ve got something immediately workable that will get through any blanket interference, and able to be installed directly into the shuttlecraft’s communication dock.”

     Spock tilted his head, glancing down at the report. “If I understand your method, Lieutenant, this implementation will require an iterative approach.”

     “That’s right, sir,” she replied. “But if the modulation algorithm’s engaged as soon as an interference signal is detected, it’s only a matter of time. And the focused nature of the solution means that it’ll be unlikely that the Doroni will be aware of what we’re doing.” She shrugged slightly. “At least, not immediately. Communication should be possible along a clear and outwardly obscured frequency tunnel.”

     “This is remarkable, Lieutenant,” Spock said, placing the PADD on the tabletop.

     Uhura’s smile was blinding, though quickly damped. “Thank you, Mr. Spock.”

     “I can imagine several other scenarios where this type of signal processing would be most efficacious.”

     She nodded rapidly. “Yes! This is actually based on something I’ve been thinking about for a while, but it was only after getting the sensors to work on the actual interference patterns that I was able to put the pieces together.” She glanced at Jim. “If I can get Mr. Spock’s help, I should be able to get the prototype on the shuttle before your launch window.”

     Jim smiled, but the tension didn’t leave his face as he turned to Spock. “You’ve got your orders, Commander.” The captain stood up, and the two other officers followed. “This is something they’re not expecting,” Jim said. “In my opinion, that’s a significant advantage, and I’ll take every one of those I can get. Well done, Uhura.”

     “Thank you, Captain.” Her eyes shone and she gathered herself. “With your permission—?”

     “Of course, Lieutenant. Dismissed. Keep me informed.”

     “Yes, sir.”

     “Mr. Spock,” Jim added quickly. “A word, please?”

     Uhura glanced between them before retrieving her PADD and walking briskly from the room, her expression maintaining its admirable mask. Spock watched her go, his mind falling too rapidly from the rigors of technical proofs to memories of soothing _ka’athyra_ music in her comforting presence. Those memories, of a time not so far past, were almost cruel in their taunting perspective. _Then_ , Spock had still held his bond. _Then_ , he had held a security that he would never know again. _Then_ —. Spock visibly winced as the doors slid shut behind Uhura, disgusted at himself for his slurry of self-pity. Turning his attention back to his captain, Spock saw Jim frown and realized that the captain had been studying him.

     “We can’t be counted out, yet,” said Jim softly, his voice cadenced as if he had wanted to say something else entirely. “If it’s not our ship that saves us, it’s our crew: both the best in the Fleet.”

     “Indeed.” Spock shifted his position, all too cognizant of the captain’s piercing gaze, somehow mirrored by an uncomfortable shifting where their bond had once thrived. “I have received a reply from my father with regard to the psi-weapon.”

     Jim’s eyebrows rose, his expression changing as the odd pressure ebbed beneath Spock’s mental shielding. “And?”

     “The VSA was unaware of their research being included as a Starfleet Special Investigation, or of its possible adaption into a weapon.” Spock crossed his arms over his chest. “They are, now.”

     Jim hummed, rubbing a hand over his chin. “So they’ll put pressure on Command for some clarification. That’s good.” He made a sarcastic chuffing noise. “If we’re lucky, they’ll have T’Pau handle it; I’m sure Komack’d love to hear from her again.”

     “The situation does not present itself well, in any regard, sir,” Spock said carefully. “You are aware of Vulcan’s unofficial opinion of Starfleet.”

     Jim huffed again, but there was now no humor in it. “You mean their _official_ unofficial opinion? Yes, I’m aware that Vulcan pacifism and Starfleet weaponry aren’t compatible, despite all of our diplomatic successes. Despite,” he waved his hands, “what we accomplished on Eminiar VII and Janus VI and—.” He broke off sharply. “Anyway, it’s clear that this… _appropriation_ of their psi technology is going to bring that disagreement to a head.”

     “Indeed,” Spock replied shortly.

     Jim’s expression hardened. “This might instigate even further isolationism, which might, conveniently, dovetail with Admiral Komack’s perceived inclinations with regard to Vulcan involvement in Starfleet. The _Intrepid_ already functions largely as an extension of the Vulcan fleet and—.”

     He paused abruptly, his eyes lifting to the chronometer before falling almost unconsciously to Spock’s mouth. The echo of their torn bond pulsed again, unexpectedly. “I’ve got to get down to sickbay. Bones is demanding a pre-flight checkup.” Jim seemed to shake himself slightly, his voice molding into a semblance of his characteristic command tones. “Make sure that comm upgrade is reinforced, in case of an attack. And also make sure that we’re armed: phaser-II setups, portable shielding, sonic grenades: the works. We might not be able to parade the stuff into the negotiation room, but I want it handy in the shuttle, just in case we’re ambushed down there.”

     “Aye, sir. I’ll see to it.”

     “Good.” Jim frowned again, opening his mouth and then shutting it abruptly. “Dismissed.” His voice wavered over the syllables, and his eyes held Spock’s, belying his spoken command.

     Spock sensed the plea behind Jim’s words. There was need, but there was duty. There were questions, but there was no time. There was longing, but still wariness and unresolved pain between them. Jim was asking for Spock’s strength, even now. Trusting him, despite everything. The strange crawling, seeking pressure within the hollowed former bondspace had spread into familiar desolate anguish, and Spock couldn’t help wincing, seeing Jim mirror his action.

     “Dismissed.” Jim spoke the word more clearly this time, but the tones of command had diminished, leaving audible despondency behind.

     “Yes, Captain.” Spock firmly spoke the title with all the depth and significant meaning of another, more ancient word and, as he turned to the door, he saw Jim’s head bow, lines of sadness on that beloved face.

 

~.~

 

     “Well, let’s not everyone act like we’re flyin’ off to our own funeral!”

     Spock flipped several switches on the shuttlecraft _Shannon Lucid_ ’s main control panel, gritting his teeth as Doctor McCoy’s overly loud drawl filtered through the open hatchway. The Vulcan had sensed the captain’s own approach with visceral clarity, unable to avoid feeling McCoy’s tense presence as well. Spock heard the lower, softer counterpoint of Jim’s voice, evidently in conversation with one of the technicians outside.

     Next to Spock, Uhura pushed herself up from her prone position on the deck under the console, a pulse phasometer held in one hand. Her blue jumpsuit was wrinkled from hours of work, but her eyes were bright with success. “Just in time,” she said softly, tilting her head toward the hatch. “I think you’re good to go, Mr. Spock.”

     Spock nodded tersely, straightening as he watched indicators flash green across the board. “Affirmative, Lieutenant.”

     Uhura rolled her shoulders as she stood. “I think I’m getting too old to crawl under consoles anymore,” she commented lightly.

     Spock looked at her, the tautness of his muscles lending visible jerkiness even to that minute movement. She was watching him, and as her eyes dropped toward his hands he became aware that they were shaking. Without comment, he clasped them behind his back, and her gaze lifted, any humor erased from her expression.

     “Sir,” she said carefully, “permission to speak freely?”

     Spock heard his breath leave him in a short, forceful exhale: almost a laugh, yet also without any humor. He could see shock in her eyes, and something of grief, and he shook his head silently, not trusting himself to answer. Everything was too vulnerable, too raw, and too ridiculously complex, and Spock felt so tired, despite the surges of brittle energy that crackled menacingly in his veins.

     Uhura’s brow furrowed and for the briefest of instants Spock thought that she would speak anyway, and then Jim appeared in the hatchway.

     “Lieutenant?” the captain asked. “Status?”

   She turned to face him with a quiet sigh. “It looks good, sir.”

     “Excellent.” Jim looked at his first officer. “Spock,” he said, “are you—?”

     “I am ready,” Spock replied, too quickly. His voice had audibly trembled and Uhura had glanced at him again, but this time it was Spock who couldn’t look away from his _t’hy’la_. Jim’s presence was a flagrant thing, the shielded place in Spock’s mind yearning, _screaming_ , for what had been ripped away, for what could never be.

     “Excellent,” Jim repeated, but his voice was heavy now, one hand gripped into a tight fist at his side, and his own movements were halting as he stepped to the side to allow Uhura to exit.

     “Good luck, Captain,” she said softly, and Spock heard her murmur something to McCoy as she passed the doctor just outside the hatch.

     The doctor muttered an unintelligible reply before heaving himself inside, bumping past the captain in a deliberate motion, his blue eyes fixed on Spock, and the obvious challenge there finally distracted the Vulcan enough to allow him to retreat into the co-pilot’s seat.

     “Let’s get this over with, Jim,” McCoy barked, moving to sit down just behind Spock and glancing around the cockpit with a scowl. “I hate these things.”

     Jim moved to sit down in the pilot’s seat. “You wanted to be here, Doctor,” he retorted sharply, punching the key sequence to seal the hatch.

     “I can’t say I was given much of a choice,” McCoy muttered darkly.

     Through the forward portals, Spock focused on the readiness lights flashing through the bay, the remaining deck personnel having withdrawn through the inner doors. Though his mind was engaged, Spock couldn’t help but feel the warmth of Jim’s body; he could smell his skin. He could—. “Systems ready, Captain,” he said abruptly, hitting the comm switch. “Bridge, this is shuttle _Shannon Lucid,_ reporting preparedness for launch.”

     “ _Confirmed, sir.”_ Sulu’s voice rose from the speakers. “ _Captain, we’re picking up that Aliz’it vessel again, holding just inside Doroni space. No hostile signs, as before, and they’re signaling that they’re your escort into the system_.”

     Jim grunted, studying his panels. “Flight time’s going to be just under two hours along the projected hyperbolic. Mr. Sulu, keep an eye on those scanners.”

   “ _Yes, sir_.” Sulu paused. “ _Captain, Admiral Komack has requested continuous reports as the negotiations proceed_.”

     “If he wanted a front-row seat, he should’ve just asked to come along,” McCoy remarked dryly.

     Jim cleared his throat. “I’m aware of that, Mr. Sulu. Follow the Admiral’s instructions.”

     “ _Yes, Captain_ ,” Sulu said. “ _Outer bay doors are opening now. Good luck, sir._ ”

     “Acknowledged,” Jim replied, engaging forward thrust.

     Spock felt another odd pang in his chest as the shuttle cleared the sanctuary of the ship, feeling growing telepathic emptiness where there had been steady human resonance and he flattened his hands on the console. He was even more closely aware of Jim’s proximity with the absence of all others, save McCoy, and he bit his lower lip surreptitiously.

     “We’re off,” Jim commented quietly, craning his neck as they fell in behind the Aliz’it escort. “Entering Doroni space.” Spock heard McCoy shift in his seat.

     “It’s not too late to turn back,” McCoy grumbled.

     Jim threw an annoyed glare over his shoulder. “Bones—.”

     McCoy grunted darkly. “How about you, Spock?” he said, a bald note of confrontation in his voice. “Care to chime in with any thoughts on things being ‘too late’?”

     “Negative,” Spock said curtly, seeing Jim glance over at him.

     “I just think that the Vulcan tendency to hide—,” the doctor began.

     “That’s enough!” Jim said sharply. He spun his chair around. “Unless you truly want to have a frank conversation about hiding things, Doctor.”

     “I told you about Komack’s inquiry,” McCoy said sullenly. “Against orders, I might add.”

     “If you have something to say,” Jim continued, “then just say it. But if not, then I suggest you keep the commentary to yourself. We’ve got a bad situation here, if you hadn’t noticed and we’re,” Jim glanced again at Spock, “not exactly operating at our best.”

     “I think I’ve noticed,” McCoy retorted.

     Jim narrowed his eyes. “More importantly than that, there’s an interplanetary conflict hinging on what we do next, and,” he paused, frowning, “I have serious suspicions as to the degree of interference that may have already occurred.”

     Spock heard the chair creak as the doctor leaned forward. “And that’s why you didn’t fight Komack on this mission, isn’t it?”

     Jim shrugged. “We need to find out what’s really going on. A secret weapon comes straight out of a classified Starfleet development program, _conveniently_ destroying what now appears to have been the only organized opposition to the current Doroni governments. A new set of negotiations is being conveniently fast-tracked, and the Aliz’it commander on that ship up ahead let it slip about a potential trading partnership, which would, _conveniently_ , allow the Federation access to the Doroni dilithium deposits, which are substantial. And never mind that those very deposits were only recently code seven-ten.”

     “I caught your repeated use of that word, by the way,” McCoy said. “And the sarcasm.”

     “No sarcasm, Bones,” said Jim. “And that’s not even all of it. This all feels like its been calculated.” He glanced at Spock again. “Too calculated, all of it. I’ve been…that’s why we’re going into the lion’s den; I’m certain that this is where the answers will be found.”

     “I hope so, Jim,” McCoy said mildly.

     “And I’d love to blame Komack for all this, but that would also be too—.” Jim trailed off.

     “Too convenient?” McCoy finished.

     “Exactly,” Jim said firmly. “Encouraging Vulcan isolationism and getting some kind of egotistical revenge on me at the same time? I feel like I’m overthinking this and that’s what’s throwing me.”

     The captain was looking searchingly at Spock, even as he spoke to McCoy. “I’m not going to allow anyone else to be put at risk, Bones, and there are still reasons—very good reasons—why these negotiations have to move forward. I need Spock’s counsel and,” he paused, his gaze shifting to the doctor, “I need yours, too. Make sure I’m not creating conspiracies out of coincidences; make sure I’m not compromised. The consequences of a Starfleet representative having some kind of ulterior motive here would be, quite frankly, unthinkable.”

     “Your intuition has always been your strength, Jim,” remarked McCoy.

     “We’ll see.” Jim’s eyes had returned to Spock, and the Vulcan felt another strange shift in pressure amidst mental pain and loss: for an instant, there was a whisper of soothing, impossibly probing thought, swift and cool, and then it was gone, swallowed again, subsumed.

     Spock turned his head to look stolidly out the viewing portal. He felt a singular powerful urge to touch, to ground himself in something as immutable as the press of flesh and sinew under his hands, in the firmness of human flesh. The sudden urge was so close and so dangerous, and he willed himself to focus on the metallic shape of the cruiser off their bow, on the mission that awaited them, and on the questions that required answers.

 

~.~

 

     “Now entering atmosphere,” Jim confirmed, both hands now on the shuttlecraft’s controls. “Following the _Yi’pera_ at two thousand meters, on course.”

     Spock leaned forward, studying the sensor readouts displayed on the console. “Local scans show a cluster of three buildings surrounded by an extensive landing area, consistent with expectations. I am reading seven craft of varying size: Aliz’it and Ka’al’erion; all power readings suggest station-keeping status. Sensors read sixty-two life signs within the buildings and an additional two hundred and four onboard the ships.”

     “Hostile?” Jim asked bluntly.

     “Negative,” Spock replied. “No hostile indications. Craft weaponry is powered down; on-site defenses are powered down; our communications channels remain clear.” Spock glanced at the captain. “I also do not sense any hostile psionic signature.”

     “Confirm environmental?”

     Spock switched screens. “Ambient conditions confirmed stable and well within suitable parameters for humanoid life support.”

     “It looks like a lot of bare rock out there, Jim,” McCoy commented, leaning over the captain’s shoulder to peer out the forward viewport.

     “Vegetation is minimal, Doctor,” Spock said. “The surface of this Eplison Doroni III was affected by significant bombardment at the onset of the war between the two neighboring planets.”

     Jim pressed a series of keys on the communications panel. “I’ve just sent a flash communiqué back to the _Enterprise_ relaying our present status and readiness to proceed.”

     The craft shuddered slightly, buffeted by winds, and McCoy grunted as he returned awkwardly to his seat, re-fastening his restraints. “How come it always seems to take forever to get on the ground in one of these things?” he muttered. “We snap around the galaxy like it’s nothing and then just mosey on in as soon as we hit atmo.”

     Spock did not reply, continuing to study his scanners, hearing Jim let out the smallest sigh of frustrated exasperation.

     “There it is!” Jim said. “I have visual contact with the ground complex. The _Yi’pera_ is vectoring down on approach; I’m following her in.”

     The shuttle shuddered again and Spock glanced over to see the captain’s grimace. “A lot of high-level shear,” said Jim shortly. “Adjusting speed to compensate. Spock, can you give me—?”

     The captain was interrupted by the sudden, shrill squeal of an alarm, and lights began to flash across the comm panel.

     “What the hell is that?” McCoy cried.

     “Strong interference across all channels,” Jim snapped. “Spock—.”

     “Initiating modulation algorithm now,” Spock began, as his own screens came to life in a cacophony of light and noise. “Captain, incoming vessel at mark six at high speed! Weapons armed!”

     McCoy’s shouted obscenity was drowned out in the burst of a sweeping energy beam and the resultant powerful explosion that buckled the _Yi’pera_ immediately in front of them. The _Shannon Lucid_ rocked in the shock wave, and Jim slammed the controls hard over, tipping them into a steep dive as the attacking vessel blew past.

     “They are coming around,” Spock said rapidly. “The attacking ship is reading as a scout craft: Aliz'it configuration.”

     “Jesus Christ!” hollered McCoy, his hands braced on the back of Spock’s seat as the crumpled remnants of the _Yi’pera_ spun in front of them in shattered freefall. “They’re shooting their own craft!”

     “Captain!” Spock exclaimed, “They’re attacking the complex!”

     Jim finally angled the nose up just before the _Yi’pera_ hit the ground, turning and banking the shuttle toward high atmosphere just as powerfully destructive energy beams began strafing the complex, wreaking indiscriminate havoc and death. The comm crackled and hissed, and alien shouts and screams came intermittently through heavy static, the universal translator calmly interpreting garbled snippets.

     _“…Starfleet…why?”_

_“It is not ours! It…no signature…”_

     “ _Not our ship! Not our ship!”_

     “ _Fight! We are…betrayed…!”_

     Jim’s teeth were bared as he fought the controls. “Give me emergency power, Spock! Get that comm channel open! We aren’t going to be able to outrun them!”

     “The algorithm is processing, sir,” Spock called over the roar of the engines. “Routing emergency reserves now!”

     “I can’t believe this,” the doctor was repeating. “I can’t fucking—.”

     A powerful jolt shook the craft and Jim swore mightily, banking again amidst the shriek of straining plastisteel.

     Spock braced his hands on the console, feeling McCoy’s hands scrabble at his seatback. “Enemy craft approaching our stern at ten-thousand meters and closing; weapons-lock achieved!”

     “I know!” Jim yelled. “Hold on!”

     They spun, and more alarms screamed. “We won’t make it into space,” Jim said breathlessly. “I’m angling us down and we’ll—.”

     An explosion rocked the craft, and McCoy cried out as part of the port bulkhead disappeared into a dun-colored sky, the doctor’s voice lost as the wind howled and thin, freezing air flooded the shuttle. Another powerful jolt, and Spock felt a echoing blade of pain as one of Jim’s restraint straps gave way and the captain’s head impacted the console, hard. Jim went limp and the craft bucked, wholly uncontrolled.

     They were falling, and the abused shuttlecraft was deteriorating, and Spock grasped the controls with both hands, fighting their wild descent as he fought for breath and the engines squealed. McCoy was silent behind him, most likely unconscious, and Jim’s body lolled in his harness, and Spock realized that, at least, the attack had broken off: their enemy apparently unwilling or unable to follow them down.

     There was a moment of spinning, of threatened oblivion as the rocky ground reached for them, and then the fluctuating power readings spiked just long enough for Spock to fire the retros, burning through all remaining fuel and the reserve. Another chunk of the stern detached just before impact, and Spock braced himself with one arm, throwing the other out in a desperate attempt to shield Jim’s head from slamming against the panels as they crashed to the ground in a shower of sparks, debris, and noise.

     _Pain!_ Ricocheting through his body and spiking through his mind, and Spock ignored it, relying not on discipline but on simple, stubborn human will. His thoughts chattered and he couldn’t properly assess his own condition and didn’t care to try. He was moving, at least, and conscious, and he released his restraints, grunting as bright agony burst over his ribcage. The captain’s harness came loose easily, and Spock crouched under the crumpled ceiling of the craft, pulling Jim protectively against him, guiding them both under the twisted plastisteel and out into chill, dry, alien air.

     Spock scanned the sky, seeing distant plumes of black smoke, but, as yet, no sign of their attacker. The air was thick with the scent of smoldering wreckage and spilled coolant, and Spock blinked through a stinging sensation in his eyes as he gently lowered Jim’s insensate but living body down onto the hard rock. His mind was playing tricks on him: he saw a garish splash of red, human blood and then it disappeared. He heard Jim’s whispered voice and then nothing but the spitting sound of fire and the creak of a collapsing structure. He tried to calculate a time until the engine sealants failed and could only estimate the astronomical odds of his having survived yet another shuttle accident. The sound of a low moan pierced his blurred reverie: _McCoy!_ Tearing himself away from his _t’hy’la’_ s side, Spock ducked back into the shuttle, shoving his own displaced seat out of the way to glimpse a torn, blue tunic behind a pile of collapsed wiring.

     McCoy was regaining consciousness, groaning loudly as Spock clumsily maneuvered him out and away from the craft. The Vulcan managed to lay the doctor next to the captain before stumbling backwards, propelled by a slippery, belated formation of a plan. Spock turned resolutely to the shuttle even as acrid smoke began billowing out from shattered panels and the lick of flames started in earnest under the port nacelle.

     “Spock!” The doctor’s hoarse shout came as Spock fell to his knees, scrambling again into the twisted interior.

     “Spock, no!”

     The Vulcan struggled to the console where a single, persistent green light was blinking, not hesitating to yank savagely at the newly exposed underside of the console, pulling out the portable unit housing Uhura’s interference modulator, and then to a side locker next to the co-pilot’s seat, where he collected two phasers and a communicator. The heavier equipment had been in the stern and was now completely inaccessible.

     “Spock! For god’s sake, get out of there! It’s burning up!”

     Spock choked on the smoke filling the cabin, pushing his way out of the _Shannon Lucid_ for the last time. He lurched the short distance to where McCoy was sitting up, Jim’s head now cradled in the doctor’s lap.

     “He’s alive. Good god, Spock, I can’t believe we survived that. Are you—?”

     Spock pushed aside the human’s proffered hand with a low growl, ignoring McCoy’s bleary look of astonishment. “We are vulnerable,” he rasped, his voice rough from the smoke. “They will return. Can you travel?”

     “Yeah,” the doctor said shakily. “I think so. I’ll—.”

     “I will take the captain.” Spock clipped the phasers and communicator to his own belt, his eyes scanning the still-empty sky. “Carry the modulator unit.”

     “The mod—? Yeah, got it.” McCoy fumbled for it, moving out from under Jim as Spock reached out for his _t’hy’la_ , lifting the captain’s body in his arms and beginning to jog without another backward glance.

     The Vulcan could hear the crackle of the rising flames, the smoke beginning to billow higher and thicker; their enemy would have no trouble finding them even without the benefit of sensors. There was the essence of lingering death here; a confusing reflection of what had happened on La’ripka, and Spock’s mind raced as he clung to his _t’hy’la_ ’s battered body, sensing the distant, dulled facets of Jim’s mind. Behind him, he heard the clumsy movements of the doctor, and he grimaced. _McCoy could not see; he could not know, he—._ A memory surfaced suddenly of a biochemical miracle conjured to mimic death on another dry, rock-strewn world: a world of heat instead of chill, a world of—. Spock let out a guttural cry of frustration as he pulled his wandering mind back to the present, tripping and almost falling before recovering himself. Death…simulated death. _Of course!_

     They had made it past the nearest large outcrop, and Spock moved around the other side of it, under a dipping shelf of gray, layered rock and a collected bank of rough sand and gravel. Without a word, he dropped to his knees, gently laying Jim down again, digging with his hands, excavating room enough for a body…perhaps for two.

     “What are you doing?” McCoy had dropped the device and had knelt next to Spock.

     The scent of human blood, leaking steadily from the doctor’s temple, was potent, and the imminent danger to his _t’hy’la_ made Spock’s motions frantic.

     “Spock, what the hell are you—?”

     “They will return,” Spock hissed through gritted teeth, impatient at having to explain. “The attacking vessel will search for survivors and kill whomever they find still alive.” His blunt nails scraped bedrock and he shifted to the side, reaching for the modulator, unable to avoid a strained gasp as he felt radiating pain across his chest.

   McCoy made a nervous sound, leaning over Jim. “What the hell is digging a hole going to do for us? We need the _Enterprise_!”

     “The modulator is countering the interference; the _Enterprise_ should receive our distress call,” he said shortly. “They will come…eventually.” He shoved the device under the overhanging shelf, all the way to the back, hearing the metal casing squeal as it scraped the stone, and then remembered his communicator. Spock pulled out the small device and activated the encrypted automatic distress signal. He almost handed the communicator to the doctor and then stopped, clipping it back to his own belt. _If the signal was intercepted and traced, it couldn’t lead back to Jim… ._

     “Eventually? Are you sure?” McCoy exclaimed, following Spock’s erratic glances toward the sky. “Spock, we can’t just hide under a rock; they’ll pick up our—.”

     “I will administer a nerve pinch,” the Vulcan interrupted firmly. “Your life signs will be obscured sufficiently to prevent detection until the _Enterprise_ …until… .” He blinked, swaying, and McCoy’s eyes narrowed as the human reached out again.

     “You’re hurt,” he said. “Let me—.”

     “It doesn’t matter,” Spock retorted sharply. He knew time was running out; he could smell the smoke from the burning shuttlecraft even here. He turned decisively away from McCoy’s sputtering protests to look at his _t’hy’la_ , captured for a moment by the soft, human curves of Jim’s face, the curl of his hair and the slow rise and fall of his chest. _This was goodbye. This was—._

     “And what are you going to do?” McCoy blurted loudly. “Knock yourself out?”

     Spock coughed, wincing as his chest burned. “Negative. I will act to ensure the diversion of their attention,” he said.

     “What?” McCoy exclaimed. “No! You goddamn crazy Vulcan! If you think I’m gonna just lie here and let you draw their fire—.”

     The human continued to argue, but Spock did not listen, did not look away from his _t’hy’la_. Finally, he allowed himself to touch. Finally, he allowed longed-for, desperate contact, extending trembling, dirt- and bloodstained fingers to Jim’s face, brushing his temple, sliding across the meld points with the gentlest of caresses. Somehow, he was aware of the doctor’s sudden, shocked silence, but, for the first time in his life, he was utterly careless of others’ opinions. He could feel Jim’s quiescent psi-energy under his sensitive fingers, a low pressure building where their bond had existed in his mind, and it was only the distant, unmistakable throb of an engine that forced him to break away.

     “Spock,” McCoy choked. “No. Please don’t do this.” And then the doctor collapsed as Vulcan strength compressed the juncture of neck and shoulder.

     A gentle slide of Jim’s body, and then McCoy’s, under the sheltering rock; a brief, last look; and then Spock was moving, rounding the outcrop and heading toward the burning shuttle at a dead run. He pulled one of the phasers from his belt, setting it to overload, and threw it into the smoking bow of the _Shannon Lucid_ , moving past the craft and out over the exposed rock toward the east, reaching a distance of two-hundred meters before he heard the deafening explosion: there would be nothing left: no possibility of confirming the presence or absence of bodies in the wreckage. The _Enterprise_ would narrow in on the modulator’s signal; he only needed to distract the attacking vessel, convincing the enemy that he had been the only survivor. He had to hope that their attackers would not have the time or ability to do a detailed scan of the area. _Hope._

     The pulse of the engines was growing louder, pounding through him even as his own footsteps hit the rock, even as his heart thrummed rapidly in his side: straining muscle, blurred vision. The fires of _pon farr_ were acting to his advantage now: dulling the pain and driving adrenaline analogues into his blood. He lengthened his stride, sprinting, and caught a glimpse of a looming shape high in the sky, coming in over the wreckage of the shuttle even as he heard a faint beep from the communicator on his belt: the distress call had been received and acknowledged. _Hope!_ Spock slowed just enough to glance over his shoulder, seeing the enemy craft descend and pass again over the burning hulk: too close to his _t’hy’la_. Without another thought, he grasped the remaining phaser in both hands, coming to a stop, his boots sliding in the thin layer of dust over the rocks.

     Spock began to fire rapidly. Over and over, and he let out a primal scream of challenge as the enemy ship finally turned and, almost lazily, moved in his direction, its forward gunports glowing with inevitability.

     Spock held his ground, knowing that escape would be useless, firing again and again, buying precious time, the phaser growing hot in his hands, anger and grief and determined purpose fueling his final actions. He would die, but Jim would live. His _t’hy’la_ would live. _His captain…his friend…his love… ._ Spock’s world exploded in a brilliant flash, and the pain, the heat, the _feeling_ exploded, too.


	15. Flickering Lights

Chapter Fifteen: Flickering Lights

 

_“I…I can feel that. I can feel you, somehow, when you do that. That’s…amazing. It is…intimate, isn’t it? This? A gesture of affection?”_

_“It is somewhat more than that, Jim.”_

 

     “No!”

     Consciousness crashed over Jim Kirk in a wash of cold and nauseated confusion and he started coughing, his hands weakly moving at his sides. His vision was a wash of white, everything bursting painfully in pounding waves within his skull.

     “No.”

     “Jim!” There was movement to his left: a blurry figure in medical blues. “Jim, can you hear me?”

     “Bones.” Jim coughed again as nausea rose, and he began to retch, turning his head as his body involuntarily heaved. He felt gentle hands supporting him as clear fluid dribbled from his mouth. Sweat beaded his forehead and he was shaking uncontrollably as the retching finally ceased and his head was guided back to the thin pillow.

     “Steady, now,” McCoy said gently. “Take it easy.”

     Jim closed his eyes, gritting his teeth and turning away as he felt a cool cloth against his forehead. There was too much: too much to feel, too much to remember. He concentrated on breathing, hearing the doctor’s murmured reassurances above him as, slowly, images began to emerge and solidify, ephemeral flashes transforming into certain memories.

     He remembered the dry heat of Vulcan and the way the sand burned his skin as he rolled, the way his sweat stung in the fresh, bleeding wound that a friend had wrought. He remembered that out of darkness there had been light, and warmth, and the presence of a bond: something cherished and protected; something of home; something that called joyfully for even more between them.

     Jim remembered intensity, passion, love, and the fulfilling sense of Spock’s mind against his own. He remembered secrecy, and intrigue, and the pressures of duty and the sense of time running out. And then he remembered sharp, crushing trauma: pain and loss and fear. There was confusion and shadows and guilt and blame and yet a strange, overwhelming longing, a visceral need, and now this: cold, clear, sickening emptiness. Something had happened and the lingering veil of fear and vulnerability instigated by that first trauma was now, finally, gone. _But, what had happened that could have wiped it away? How were his memories fully returned while Spock’s presence was so definitively absent?_ Jim opened his eyes, trying to force recollection of the attack on the shuttle: desperate piloting, an impact, and the sounds of his friends' voices carrying over the wind. Somehow, despite all that, they had made it back to the ship. At least, he and McCoy had—.

     “Where—?” Jim gasped, laboring against debilitating weakness in order to focus on the man next to him. “Where is—?”

     “We’re on Starbase Seventeen, Jim,” McCoy said.

     “What?” Jim turned his head, registering the plain white walls and ceiling of a small, unfamiliar room hung with medical monitors and equipment. There was no subtle vibration, no pulse of engines. “My ship—?”

     “The _Enterprise_ is safely docked, Jim,” McCoy said quickly. The doctor was moving with nervous energy: fiddling with a hand scanner, poking at a PADD, taking readings from the biomonitor.

     “Where’s Spock?” Jim asked tightly.

     The doctor’s sudden stillness was disconcerting. “He’s alive,” McCoy said shortly.

     Jim shifted weakly on the bed; grimacing as the sharp pain in his head seemed to compound. “Where is he?” he insisted, fear sliding over him at the doctor’s unconvincing intonation.

     Jim choked in the face of McCoy’s tight, continued silence, repeating loudly, “Where is he? What…what are we doing at Seventeen? What—?” He had to pause in order to catch his breath, finishing haltingly, “What happened in the Doroni system? What happened to the shuttle?” McCoy still didn’t answer immediately, and Jim shifted impatiently, feeling the dull stiffness of his limbs, rising frustration and terror stifling him. “Goddammit, Bones!”

     McCoy regarded Jim with an odd, searching look. “What do you remember?”

     The doctor’s tone implied some deeper meaning, some hidden greater significance, and Jim glared, uttering, “Just the…the attack on the shuttle and then this, here, now. I need to see Spock.”

     The captain was certain that the bond had been kept secret, both before and after the attack on La’ripka. It had been kept secret for good reasons and he didn’t understand why McCoy wouldn’t tell him where Spock was; he didn’t understand his friend’s cagey, uncharacteristic evasiveness. A thousand terrifying possibilities crowded his mind and he felt his glare change into something more desperate. “Bones?”

     A broken expression fleetingly crossed the doctor’s face. “You don’t remember anything else, Jim?”

     Jim tossed his head anxiously on the pillow, snapping, “What the hell else am I supposed to remember? Where’s Spock? On the ship?”

     “Your memory had been affected after the psi attack on the moon base,” McCoy remarked noncommittally. “How do you feel right now?”

     “My head feels like it’s just been through an emergency start on the warp drive and I’m freezing.” Jim twisted his body against the thin sheets; pushing up to a slouched seated position through sheer, stubborn will. “My memory’s fine. What the hell’s going on? Why won’t you answer me?”

     “Your memory’s fine,” McCoy echoed, and the touch of inexplicable sarcasm in his voice caused Jim to blink in confusion. The doctor’s eyes narrowed slightly. “So, now you remember—.” He stopped abruptly and visibly took a deep breath, and when he continued the angry cynical tone had disappeared into clinical crispness. “You’ve been out for almost four days, Jim. During that time, you exhibited utter non-responsiveness that appeared to be completely decoupled from your physical injuries.”

     “Four days—,” Jim repeated weakly.

     “I couldn’t figure out why you wouldn’t wake up,” McCoy said, his blue eyes betraying frustration and inexplicable anger. “At first I figured it was latent damage from that damn attack that had somehow been missed.” He shrugged. “But then I noticed an anomaly in your brainwave patterns that seemed to be controlled by nonlocal stimuli.”

     “Non…nonlocal what?” Jim fumbled.

     “I thought I was going to lose you.” McCoy was agitated now, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “And then I remembered the scans I took right after Vulcan, entirely before La’ripka, where I noted unexpected activity in areas hypothesized to be related to latent telepathic ability.” The doctor was breathing hard, his nostrils flared. “The new anomaly lined up almost exactly.”

     “Bones—.”

     “By this time, we’d docked at Seventeen and everything was in security lockdown. I tracked down the resident neurologist and asked her opinion and she hemmed and hawed and finally suggested that I try a dose of morinerin-B, which was developed after the Talos IV incident as a way to combat hostile telepathic control.”

     “Bones, I—.”

     The doctor harshly spoke over him, “But, morinerin-B is experimental; I’d need to synthesize it and take my chances: no one knows if it really works in practice or what the side-effects might be.” He let out a sharp puff of air. “I was out of answers, though, and terrified that you were under some kind of attack. And then, twelve hours ago, I got an unexpected communication, even through the security blackout, informing me of what, precisely, you seem to be suffering from.”

     Jim stared at his friend, seeing grief and accusation in McCoy’s eyes and lines of pain on the older man’s face. The doctor continued gutturally, “The message suggested that what you’re actually suffering from, _Captain_ , is a damaged Vulcan bond.”

     “Where’s Spock?” Jim hissed breathlessly. “Bones, please—.”

     The doctor interrupted him again. “A bond that was formed sometime on our recent sojourn to Vulcan and explains your first officer’s miraculous recovery from what should have been a fatal condition.” McCoy took an aggressive step forward. “A bond that was _not_ disclosed to the CMO by either party, and was evidently significantly damaged when the psi-weapon was activated on La’ripka, resulting in trauma to both of you.”

     “He said that he’d had to sever it—,” Jim whispered hoarsely.

     McCoy stepped even closer to the bed, open distress contorting his face. “It hadn’t been severed, Jim, just badly damaged. Damaged enough to affect your memory and instill strong feelings of pain and violation in you.” He grimaced. “And to induce a recurrence of _pon farr_ in Spock.”

     “What? No—.” Jim looked away, stunned, belated realization filling him as he remembered Spock’s distance and the Vulcan’s barely hidden anguish. The bond had been damaged and had festered painfully in each of them, and this, then, was the explanation for those harsh emotions that seemed completely divorced from reality: betrayal and violation despite knowing that Spock had saved his life; lost memories associated with their bonding. And Spock had been—.

     “He thought he was going to die, Jim,” McCoy said, “and he wouldn’t touch you because of the pain he had caused you on La’ripka. He’d resigned himself. When the shuttle crashed on III, Spock’s only thought was to keep you alive. He neck-pinched me to obscure our life signs, yours and mine, and must have distracted the enemy ship long enough for the _Enterprise_ to get there to rescue us.” The doctor waved a hand helplessly. “He’d ripped out that communications hack and retuned it to pierce the interference and send a distress call.”

     “Where is he?” Jim demanded shrilly.

     McCoy shook his head jerkily. “The _Enterprise_ didn’t find his body, Jim. The enemy ship had been destroyed, somehow, but there were no Vulcan signatures and the surviving Doroni ships were closing fast and apparently not interested in explanations. The science officer on the scanners thought he was dead; hell, I thought he was dead, when I finally saw the report. He was declared missing, officially, but—.”

     “But you said he’s alive!” Jim was stammering, his entire perception narrowing to the pain in his head and the growing, frantic feeling of confused loss. “What message?” he asked belatedly. “How—?”

     “The message was from Spock’s mother, Jim. Did you know his father had been the Vulcan ambassador to the Federation? Only recently stepped down? She had been notified that her son was missing through diplomatic channels, and she was,” McCoy paused, running a shaking hand over his chin, “she was concerned as to the mental health of his new bondmate. She’d known Spock must have found someone, in order to survive what had happened with his former fiancée, but she—Amanda—was unsure of the proper care being available for whomever he had chosen given the circumstances: secrecy and stubbornness and the fact that the rest of his goddamn planet had forsaken him. Spock’s mother, god help her, thought that I, as his physician, needed to be aware of—.” McCoy broke off abruptly, and his face contorted, wetness shining in his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier, Jim? I could’ve…I could’ve done something to help you! To help him! I could’ve—.”

     Jim clenched his fists impatiently, blood rushing in his ears. “How the hell do you know he’s still alive, Bones? I can’t…I can’t feel him at all. I used to—.”

     “Your condition is explainable, given a damaged bond, Jim, an _unbroken_ damaged bond, according to Spock’s mother! If Spock were…if he were dead, you wouldn’t have been mentally trapped like this; humans are psi-null. So, I took a shot with the morinerin-B and you showed improvement almost immediately.”

     “My god, Bones! He’s still—. He’s—.” Jim faltered, thinking desperately of his friend, his _bondmate_ , trapped somewhere behind hostile lines, probably injured and suffering the throes of a renewed blood fever. The drug had evidently forced all the symptoms of the damaged bond to fall away: the fear and violation, the irrational sense of betrayal, the faded memories. But, it seemed that the very perception of their fragmented connection had been erased as well. “He’ll think I’m dead! If he could feel me at all, he’ll assume I’m—.”

     “If I take you off the drug you’ll just relapse, Jim. Anyway, I don’t think it works that way. I think—.”

     “Goddamn what you think!” Jim finally exploded. “We need to go after him!”

     “We can’t, Jim,” McCoy said glumly, retreating a step, his shoulders slumped. “With the second attack on Starfleet representatives and the continued instability within the Doroni system, Komack took in a battle group to reassert order in the system, under authority granted him by a Starfleet emergency declaration, supposedly for the welfare of the civilians and for Federation security.” The doctor scoffed. “It was his own little war, neat and tidy and, of course, he won; Starfleet’s now in control of the system,” he snapped his fingers, “just like that.”

     Jim shook his head blindly. His head was pounding and the sense of cold weighed down his limbs. His fingers curled in the sheets and flashes of light sparked on the periphery of his vision.

     McCoy sighed, muttering, “Even the Klingons wouldn’t have gone in there sight unseen, dilithium be damned. But Komack knew exactly how to get the job done.”

     Jim shook his head again, the flashes of light refusing to stop. He thought he could _feel_ the emptiness in his mind, and it threatened to swallow him whole. “If they’re in charge…we have to tell them that Spock’s alive. They have to start a search.”

     “I tried, Jim!” McCoy exclaimed; his expression creased in defeat. “As soon as your condition changed, I sent an urgent comm to Komack.” The doctor lowered his eyes as he continued gravely, “The admiral quoted the scanner reports and disregarded everything except the part about the undisclosed, apparently intimate relationship between you and Spock and my questionable part in it. I’ve been relieved of duty and so have you. We’re both suspended pending a formal inquiry.” He glanced around the room, and only then did Jim see the security lock flashing over the door. “Our hands are tied, Jim.”

     “No!” Jim pushed against the surface of the biobed as the room began to swim around him. “No,” he hissed. “That bastard…we can’t…we can’t just leave him—.” He fought against rapidly encroaching darkness in vain, finally collapsing, distantly hearing McCoy’s frantic yell as the deck rose up to meet him.

 

~.~

 

_“My friend, I need you, too, very much. Please don’t ever forget that.”_

 

     “ _Rai!”_

     Murky unconsciousness broke unexpectedly, solidifying into frigid, featureless brightness, cruelly radiating pain and a sharp metallic scent. Spock felt his limbs jerk uselessly against some kind of rigid binding as he struggled, feeling dizzy and sick, choking against the shock of loss: the guarded, tattered remnants of his bond with Jim had vanished, collapsing into something that felt like death.

     “ _Rai_!”

     Spock’s voice caught raggedly in his throat, and his vision refused to focus. His body was sluggish and aching, wracked with terrible weakness. Other beings lurked nearby; their unfamiliar psionic vibrations barely perceptible over the uncontrolled rush of confusion, despair and grief that now flooded his mind.

     He was alive, impossibly, but had no idea of where he was, and who had taken him. He turned his head, now seeing irregular black sparks in front of his eyes, feeling the bite of something sharp inserted into the flesh of his arm, pinching as he tried to move. He could feel the drift of air over his skin, the scratch of some kind of rough cloth over his naked lower half, and an unyielding, unpadded surface beneath his body. The urgent heat of the _pon farr_ had somehow evaporated, and the Vulcan was gripped with a sudden recollection of how he had felt when he had held the _ahn’wun_ , Jim’s body limp and listless underneath him: hollow loss and desperate disbelief.

     He groaned, frustrated and bewildered, shutting his eyes tightly and focusing on shields that had cracked and crumbled, searching the sheer darkness within. He dimly felt his body shudder limply, his blunt fingernails curling painfully into the hard surface as he stubbornly, illogically reached for anything left of his friend. And then, finally, _there_ , translucent and trembling, the barest flicker of light remained.

     It was not death, after all, that had subsumed the vestiges of their connection, but something else entirely, and the faint glimmer brought with it harsh flashes of memory: an explosive force moving toward him; the sense of falling; the feeling of being dragged, shifting voices and rough, painful grips on his body; burning coursing through his veins; pain on top of pain. Of his friend, however, Spock knew only that Jim was alive, somewhere; anything else eluded him, including what had occurred to narrow the already crumbling connection between them and to, evidently, snap Spock himself back to consciousness.

     Spock gasped for breath, forcing his eyes open and blinking as his vision cleared and a dusty gray ceiling came into focus above him. He turned his head slightly to the right, seeing a metallic frame hung with what appeared to be intravenous lines leading to a crude port in his arm. They had taken his uniform, and the thin blanket covering him was covered with dark greenish stains. His torso was darkly bruised, and he saw the edges of hastily closed wounds. Spock gritted his teeth and fought to steady his breathing as his body trembled with chills, dehydration, and fatigue.

     “You hear? Starfleet, are you aware?”

     The voice was clipped and heavily accented, decorated with a low hissing lisp and coming from somewhere to his left. There was a shuffle of movement, a flare of presence against his mind, and Spock sensed alien urgency, satisfaction, and deep-seated, serrated anger as the creature spoke again. “We not decide if we want you dead or alive.”

     The Vulcan turned his head, taking in a small, undecorated room and the single alien that crouched against the far wall near a single, closed door. The being was gaunt, with lean, skeletal limbs extending from a torn, red jumpsuit. Its skin was a dull bluish-green and covered in an unfamiliar pattern marred by crisscrossing silvery scars. One large, black eye regarded him intently, the other unseeing and cloudy gray. A wide, reptilian mouth was slightly open, the tip of a bluish tongue protruding. No wings extended over its broad shoulders, and no shift in skin coloration was evident, and Spock detected again the sharp scent he had initially perceived upon waking. He could sense that this alien considered itself to be female.

     The creature made a chortling sound. “We are still not decided of your death. We give you drug, _iyustala_ : for control, yes? Your skin is hot; you fight restraints; you scream; we give _iyustala_ to observe at least your physiology before death. Surprise that you wake, calm, and now after many _fris’vyut_! Why?”

     Her words echoed in the Vulcan’s ears, and additional unpleasant memories ignited nauseatingly: he recalled his cries, his body twisting painfully in the relentless throes of the advancing blood fever, strapped to this table, helpless fear and pain fading into the drowning whirlpool of the drug, and then this…wakening.

     “I do not know.” Spock coughed and winced, forcing the memories away and focusing on the alien’s unexpected appearance. “You…are a genetic hybrid?”

     She tilted her head in an abrupt motion, her sides moving with silent, rapid breaths that outlined sharply protruding ribs. The eager note of satisfaction had disappeared. “What knowledge of that?”

     “Fascin—.” Spock’s voice shook as he shivered, his skin chafing painfully against the table beneath him; it seemed he had been lying here for some time. “Fascinating. Hini Tai…spoke of you.” He could not suppress his discomfort; he was too weak, and his controls had been inadequate even before the crash. “Where…how—?”

     “You call me Ghori,” she interrupted abruptly. “You are my prisoner.” She was clutching a small metallic device in one long-fingered hand, and he could now sense growing agitation, her rapid breathing now audible as a low susurrus of noise through slitted nostrils.

     Spock blinked, unable to tell if she had provided a name or a title. Her scent had changed to something more potent and sharp. He coughed again, asking carefully, “You were…responsible for the attack on our shuttle?”

     She hissed caustically, practically spitting as her body coiled. “You dare? _Jissh’briyal_!”

     “I do not…do not understand.”

     Ghori’s expression contorted as she bared her teeth, hissing loudly. “Starfleet betrayer! It was your vile weapon that destroyed our many brave champions, and you dare speak Hini Tai’s name?”

     “I don’t—,” Spock began.

     “You were only ones to survive! You! And then you fabricated new negotiation with the weakened _nli’ni’ripahn_ and destroyed them, too!” She leaned forward aggressively. “Your ship was damaged in the attack and crashed and now you are my prisoner. You will be a hostage when we finally deal with Starfleet.”

     “Starfleet will not—.”

     “Starfleet now controls our system! Our many system!” Her words slurred together as she gestured violently with her hands, and a single drop of viscous fluid leaked from her clouded eye. “We wish for nothing more than help to escape the _nli’ni’ripahn_ evil.” Ghori spat on the floor, clarifying, “The Aliz’it and Ka’al’erion governors. We, the _vjilerit_ , were developed, were _grown_ , for our physical strength and agility. We were used cruelly for manual labor, experiments, and service. No respect, no comfort. We were slaves: murdered, tortured, brutalized. Those few who could escape, escaped here, and still were hunted.”

     “The resistance…wanted to stop it?” Spock faltered, buffeted by her fierce emotions. His vision was growing blurry again.

     “Those few amongst the _nli’ni’ripahn_ saw the evil and fought to stop it: Hini Tai, Consiu Jhi’zha, Nuli Farr, Deriu Li’Ssuk! They fought together, but they knew they could not prevail by themselves. They thought Starfleet could save them, and us, if they knew about the many atrocities, but the resistance first had to be seen as legitimate leaders. Fools, we all were!” She was visibly shaking. “We are on the third planet. Underground. We retrieved you and now you are ours. Your Starfleet will have to deal with us and we are no longer many ignorant.”

     Ghori spat again, rising to her full, impressive height, her bones shifting visibly under emaciated skin and sinew. “They come in over bodies of all who wish peace, and though we celebrate the many deaths of the _nli’ni’ripahn_ , we not forgive ultimate betrayal. Starfleet came, and revealed true purpose! Starfleet forces are even now concentrated on our mining moons, not our people! Your government now controls this system, as it wished to do all along, but not for peace, not for justice, as we hoped.” She was almost wailing. “We learn Standard! We hope…we dream for salvation! We sacrifice everything to open communication and we are betrayed!”

     Her voice was now a high-pitched screech, the fluid dripping copiously from her damaged eye. “We are forsaken! Diriu Li’Ssuk was betrayed. Nuli Farr was betrayed. There is no justice after all. No dream from which to waken.” She stepped back unsteadily, holding the device out in front of her, her mind a maelstrom of hatred and grief. “Your government will many pay for this. You will many pay for this. You are no different from the _nli’ni’ripahn_.” She spun, and he heard the squeal of the door as it opened and closed. The lights immediately dimmed, leaving him alone, trapped, and shivering in near-darkness.

     Panic rose, uncontrolled, to fill the emotional cavity left by her departure. Spock’s body felt like ice; his mind felt like ice; his emotions cracked like frozen things. He closed his eyes tightly against the gloom, curling his hands into fists and searching for that faint flicker that he knew to be Jim’s presence. Rational thought eluded him, and he could feel the background influence of the drug threatening to pull him back into insensibility.

     Ghori’s words were striking; her misunderstanding of the situation as stark as her assertion that Starfleet had apparently staged a military action against the remaining Doroni forces and was now acting as an occupying power. It seemed improbable, but his thoughts swirled and evaded any attempt at deliberate calculation. The glimmer of mental connection came, frustratingly, in and out of focus. Spock did not understand what had happened; he did not understand what had acted to disrupt the inexorable march of the blood fever as well as the poisonous grip of the Doroni drug.

     He was alone and yet not alone, even as far distant as Jim seemed to presently be. The perception of his friend’s distance, perhaps imagined but certainly reinforced by Ghori’s lack of acknowledgment of another captive Starfleet officer, was itself reassuring. _Parted from me and yet never parted. Never and always touching and touched… ._ The words of the ancient ritual crept through the confusion and the pain and the fatigue, and Spock felt his lips move as he repeated them again and again.

     The aggression and passion of the runaway _pon farr_ had cooled and in that tenuous clarity Spock could now perceive what had been obscured by guilt, loss, and grief: the bond had not been broken at all. What he had originally thought to be tattered remnants were simply manifestations of extensive damage, evidently instigating his own symptoms and no doubt affecting Jim as well.

     The Vulcan continued the mantra, struggling for control of his body and mind, reminiscent of his earliest memories of childhood when recalcitrant and shameful emotion threatened his every action and thought. He recalled the repetition of exercises to clear his mind of a constant tumult of formidable curiosity and crushing self-doubt, focusing on single particulars: the sound of shifting sand, minute fluctuation of temperature, the beat of his heart, and, here, now, the simple knowledge that he yet had something to fight for.

 

Author’s Note: “ _Parted from me and yet never parted. Never and always touching and touched… .”_ from Amok Time.

 

 


	16. A Rising Noise

Chapter Sixteen: A Rising Noise

 

     Consciousness came more deliberately this time: a slow clearing of vision and a creep of sensation instead of a painful shock, and Jim could feel the weight of harsh awareness settle heavily into the contours of his face and tighten the muscles of his shoulders as he finally opened his eyes.

     The captain cleared his throat, lips parting slightly as he gritted his teeth, subtly testing his arms and legs. The inexplicable sense of cold and the headache were still there, but neither seemed as acute as before. The urgency, however, was more intense, and followed quickly by seething anger. His bondmate was alive, lost in a hostile and dangerous place, and Jim was helpless to do anything about it. _No_ , he thought fiercely, his hands curling into fists at his sides, _I’m not helpless, or at least I flatly refuse to believe in the concept of helplessness_.

     “You’re awake.” McCoy’s voice came from the side of the bed, and Jim followed the gravelly tone to see the doctor seated in a chair against the wall, his lined features slack as if he had just roused himself from sleep.

     “Yeah,” Jim said hoarsely, clearing his throat again. He moved awkwardly but steadily to push himself up, grimacing as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Thankfully, the nausea had not returned.

     McCoy heaved a sigh, and the captain couldn’t tell if it was in relief or exasperation. “How are you feeling?” Bones asked, huffing softly as he slowly stood up. “Don’t answer that; I’m enough of a doctor to see for myself, if not enough of a friend.”

     Jim swallowed suddenly crackling impatience. “What do you want me to say?”

     “I don’t know,” McCoy replied flatly, eyeing the overhead biomonitors.

     “Did you try Komack again?” Jim asked sharply. “Or Commodore Meyer? We’re on Seventeen, right?” He put his hands flat on the surface of the bed, shifting his body experimentally. His shoulders curled as he felt himself begin to shiver.

     “I’ve tried everything,” McCoy said, frowning. “Jim, I—.”

     “Bones!” Jim interrupted heatedly. “We have to—.”

     “I know what we have to do!” McCoy burst in unexpectedly. “I _know_ , Jim! I’ve known you long enough to be able to figure out what’s going to happen next and I want to make sure that we’re straight with each other before that happens. I,” he slammed his hand on a nearby console, “ _refuse_ to go any further without truth between us.”

     Jim flinched, briefly taken aback by the doctor’s vehemence. “What truth are you looking for?” he hissed between gritted teeth. “We’re wasting time.”

     McCoy’s eyes narrowed. “The whole truth, Jim, and I think I’ve earned it. You were ready to throw your career away for Spock and I’m about to do the same for you. That should tell you something.”

     Jim exhaled strongly, bracing himself against his hands as he slid off the bed to cautiously find his balance. “It’s everything you cautioned against, Bones,” he muttered. “Everything you worried about. All that and even more.”

     McCoy swallowed audibly. “You actively didn’t tell me,” he said. “Neither of you did. Why not?”

     “We don’t have time to—.”

     “Why not?” Bones demanded harshly. “Never mind duty and regulations. Never mind any rights I have to your personal business as your friend or your doctor. The simple fact of you hiding this makes me suspect your command fitness more than the fact of the bond itself. It isn’t like you, Jim, to sidestep something. You deal with things straight on, now matter how personally sensitive. What is it about this thing that made you wary of—?”

     “You’re going to stand here and play pop-psychologist while Spock’s—?”

     “I’m going to get a goddamn answer!” Bones thundered.

     “I don’t have an answer!” Jim yelled, wincing as his head pounded. “I don’t have an answer for you, Bones. I—.” He rubbed his forehead. “I could tell you that it was because of Komack. Hell, it _was_ because of Komack, for a while. But, it was more than that, too.”

     “You were protecting Spock.”

     Jim sighed, closing his eyes against growing dizziness. “I think I was protecting myself, Doctor. You were right when you said I was willing to throw my career away for Spock. You could argue that I threw my life away for him by continuing to fight in that arena on Vulcan.”

     “I think I did argue that,” McCoy rejoined dryly.

     Jim’s blind anger at his friend fell away dizzyingly as he remembered seeing McCoy’s distraught expression after the bladed _lirpa_ had been tossed aside, glimpsed through sweat and dust and the blur of exhaustion and near-hypoxia, the doctor pressing a hypo to his shoulder. _That’s not what I came to Vulcan for, is it?_ He starkly felt the contrast between his memory of intense heat and the hollow, mysterious chill now gripping his body.

     “You saved my life on Vulcan, and in doing so saved his,” Jim said quietly. “You know that, right? The bond…the link formed then. Spock, ever cognizant of my wellbeing, came to me as soon as he sensed it between us, but I…I wanted it. I wanted him in that way: intimately, his mind somehow touching mine, constant. It seemed right: a continuation of all that we already were.” He shrugged. “He needed it, and I needed him.” The truth, finally, spoken out loud, and Jim briefly closed his eyes.

     Bones was watching him. “And when he was injured on that crazy planet with the tentacle creature and when you—?”

     Jim sniffed. “When I came running down to sickbay and you really started to worry about compromise? Well, you were right about Vulcans not melding casually.”

     “Why didn’t you tell me? I can understand about Spock, but we—.” McCoy looked away. “You’re my best friend, Jim.”

     Jim gazed at him levelly. “It would have been used against us,” he said simply. “It has been.”

     McCoy shook his head. “I would’ve helped you find a way, Jim. I wouldn’t have gone to Komack with this, orders be damned. If it meant that much to you—.”

     Jim chuckled humorlessly. “I can understand now why the Vulcans are as tight-lipped as they are. Why they refuse to discuss this aspect of their culture. You can’t _explain_ it in human terms; it’s more than a calling or duty or faith, it’s…it’s knowledge: sure, certain knowledge of another person in a way that’s completely humbling.” He exhaled forcefully. “It’s frankly unbelievable, and unbearably private, and I wanted to understand it before exposing it. And I couldn’t bear to see Spock exposed as well.”

     “But you endangered the ship!”

     “We damn well did not,” Jim said, his anger returning in force.

     “You endangered yourself!” McCoy shot back.

     “The link saved my life on La’ripka.” Jim felt his upper lip curl defiantly. “I’d be dead; there was no way he could have gotten there in time.”

     “What do you mean? He said he melded with you.”

     “He didn’t touch me; he was too far away. The bond let him reach me.”

     “Good lord, Jim.” The doctor’s shoulders slumped.

     “Just like he might be able to reach me, now!” Jim insisted.

     McCoy’s jaw tightened, and he shook his head again. “If that’s true and I take you off the medication, you’ll just fall back into that psychic coma, or worse.”

     “You don’t know that!”

     “Listen, Jim, I believe this link between you is still active on some level. Whatever is happening to him is enough to drag you under and if he’s suffering from the blood fever, he…well, something drew him and T’Pring together and it certainly wasn’t her sunny smile. I can only guess that the drug’s curtailing that effect with you, but I don’t know—it’s never been tested like this! If the damage to the link caused your previous symptoms, the drug might be blocking your awareness of that damage. But the damage is still there and—.”

     “Spock could be dying, for all we know!” Jim shoved himself defiantly away from the steadying side of the biobed, swaying before planting his feet stubbornly. “And I’m not about to let that happen. We need to get a search underway.” He licked his lips, eyes searching the room and coming to rest on the flashing security light. “I have to talk to Komack; force him to see reason.”

     McCoy tightly crossed his arms over his chest. “I can guarantee that’s not going to work, Jim. There’s something going on here that goes beyond you and Spock. Think about it: he’s taken a battle group into a sovereign system, established control over what we know to be significant dilithium sources as well as a strategic location with regard to both the Klingon and Romulan territories.” He shook his head. “Everything that’s happened since we’ve gone into the Doroni system has seemed to be set up for this; and finding reasons to get rid of you and Spock has just been icing on the cake.”

     Jim was silent, his mind churning past irrational urgency and pain. “A conspiracy?”

     “ _I’m_ having to suggest that to _you_?” Bones exclaimed incredulously. “Jim, Komack sent us into a blind situation with minimal intelligence. You walked right into what seemed to be a perfect trap, set with a weapon that had been under secret development by a branch that Komack oversees. Both sides of the Doroni conflict— establishment and dissident—each seemed to be double-crossed, leading to increasing chaos, and _twice_ Starfleet personnel were placed in the crosshairs, ultimately giving the admiral a clear shot at a legitimate-sounding ticket into the system. And, boy, did he claim that opportunity! Now he’s got you locked up with his fancy emergency authority and seems to have no intention of finding Spock—probably the only two officers with enough guts to stand up to him, not to mention the fact that you know what’s really going on in the Doroni system better than anyone else.”

     Jim grimaced. “If that’s true, Bones, then—.”

     “Then Komack’s guilty of a hell of a lot more than just being an asshole,” McCoy finished. “And I think that whole situation with T’Pau inspired his choice as to who ultimately got sent in as the Starfleet sacrificial lamb.”

     “It was Vulcan technology—,” Jim murmured. “Vulcan will pull away. That’d be in line with what Komack wanted all along: to each their own. If this is true—.” Jim stared at his friend. “Bones, if this is true, the Federation itself is in danger: trust in the Fleet, a breach in sovereignty, a unilateral military action!”

     “No shit,” McCoy said. He shrugged. “He’s gone way out on a limb, and the military action in the Doroni system is sending ripples clear across the chain of command.”

     “The chain of command might work in our favor for a change! If we can get a message out to—,” Jim began.

     “Not likely,” McCoy finished. “You’ve been declared medically and psychologically unfit, and I presently don’t have the authority to revoke it. The fact that I’m here now is simply thanks to my personal charm and the fact that no one wants to be involved with my questionable use of an untested drug. The staff here’s very inclined to obey an admiral’s standing orders and Command’s too busy with what’s actually going on in the Doroni system right now. Believe me, I’ve tried; making calls isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

     The doctor’s mouth tightened in a grim smile as Jim’s forehead creased in consternation. Bones continued, “The good news is that we’re not alone in wanting to bring Spock home and figure out Komack’s underlying motivations in all this. Uhura’s been suspicious of the whole situation even before you took off for La’ripka. And our communications officer just happens to have as a protégé a young lady who herself has a keen sense of loyalty to our first officer, considering that he saved her life on that godforsaken planet full of tentacle creatures and sensor anomalies.”

     “Lieutenant Alvarez?” Jim asked, recalling the bright young science officer.

     McCoy nodded. “None other than Captain Ariela-Elena Alvarez’s daughter.” His blue eyes were bright. “The _Reliant_ ’s part of Komack’s impromptu battle group and there’s enough fishy stuff going on for Captain Alvarez to call in to her daughter clandestinely about the _Enterprise’s_ status, and yours. The lieutenant spoke to Uhura and Nyota brought it right to me.”

     “If Captain Alvarez is out there, and we have a channel, we can ask her to start a search!”

     “It’s not that easy and you know it. There’s a reason Komack’s not motivated to look for Spock and a hundred reasons for him to keep the _Reliant_ or any other ship from doing it either.” He paused. “And they have no hope of finding him with conventional long-range scanners anyway; not in all that.”

     “Conventional,” Jim repeated, leaning forward. “Goddammit, Bones, _I_ can find him. I’m drawn to him; you said it yourself.”

     McCoy let out a hissing noise through gritted teeth. “Maybe. Probably. Like I said, you were being strongly affected even with the distances involved and I can only guess that you’ll continue to be. I can’t risk taking you off of the morinerin completely, but playing with the dosage _might_ let me keep you conscious and yet mitigate some of the worst side effects. And Captain Alvarez _might_ be able to help us get into the system.” He scowled, clearing his throat. “I haven’t quite convinced myself of either one, but it’s a possibility, anyway, and one of the few we have.”

     Jim stared at his friend, impressed despite their tenuous situation. “Something tells me we’re stealing a ship.”

     “I’m a doctor, not a pilot,” McCoy quipped, his dark expression slowly widening into a sly grin. “But I know where we can find one: a pilot, that is, and a comm officer and probably an engineer, too. Let me help you get dressed.”

 

~.~

 

     The alien drug had continued to pour into his bloodstream, threatening Spock with a relapse into unconsciousness, and perhaps even further still. He was able to contest its effect, however; something was interrupting the feedback along the damaged bond between himself and his _t’hy’la_ , alleviating the destructive symptoms of _pon farr_ and allowing Spock the return of a certain measure of control. And so he lay, alone and in near-darkness, able to regulate to some extent his physical systems but hardly strong enough in either body or mind to initiate a healing trance. The nature of the disruption was unclear, and the bond’s silence cloaked in hollow cold, and Spock focused on further repetition of the mind rules, again and again, struggling against futility and despair. And not inconsequential was his curiosity, despite his dire situation, regarding this mysterious hybrid population of the Doroni system and their supporters’ apparent ethical coup that had ended in death. Spock could not help returning to Ghori’s assertions of Starfleet culpability, and he considered, with icy fear, the possibility that Jim might not, even now, be safe.

     The dark strain of attempted meditation abruptly gave way to the slippery sensation of another being’s hands on Spock’s skin and the uncomfortable psionic press of another mind against Spock’s own. He kept his eyes shut as he felt the restraints snap away from his arms and legs. There was a pause, and then the thick needle was pulled roughly from his vein, and he tensed as other, more intimate, leads were removed as well. His body had not generated much in the way of waste, but he could feel an unpleasant layer of filth and grime over his skin. He finally opened his eyes, turning his head to regard Ghori. She curled her lips and shoved viciously at the table on which he lay. Her strength was formidable, and he raised weakened arms to shield his head as the table toppled over and he fell gracelessly to the floor.

     “Stand, Starfleet,” she ordered. “We must go from here. Now.”

     Spock looked up from where he sprawled, naked. Ghori tossed a ball of clothing at him. Her entire being was radiating anger and fierce urgency underlain with terror and he understood instantly that they were in danger.

     “I see you do not respond to _iyustala_. You fool no one. Stand!” She hissed sharply. “Or die! Perhaps I have an answer after all! Stay and die!”

     Spock licked his lips, glancing around. He could hear nothing but her ragged breathing, but now, as his psi-sense cleared from the rigidity of meditation, he could feel emotional echoes from outside the room: seething desperation and searing terror. “What…what is happening?”

     She sneered. “An attack, what do you think?” Ghori made a threatening move toward him, and the silver device was in her hand again. “Stand! Dress!”

     He nodded silently, awkwardly unfolding the clothing, a wrinkled and torn jumpsuit, and pulling it over his limbs. It was too large for him; the front wouldn’t completely seal and blood leaking slowly from the open needle wound on his arm had already soaked through one sleeve.

     “Go! Go now!” Her voice was shrill, and she kicked at him as she moved forward. He struggled to stand, and now he could hear a low rumble that was matched by a slight vibration through the floor. The lighting flickered and dimmed, and he finally managed to regain his feet, swaying unsteadily even as she reached for him, grasping his upper arm in one long-fingered hand and practically dragging him through the door.

     The hallway outside was cramped and dimmer than the room had been, and another low noise came shuddering down the walls, louder than it had been, the vibrations more intense. Dust and grit cascaded around them, and Spock could sense other living beings, but could not see or hear them through the rumbling…impacts? Ghori had specified they were underground.

     She yanked on his arm, pulling him to the side and down a rough-hewn staircase just as another, even more powerful shock wave slammed through the surrounding walls. Spock could hear muffled, hissing screams from ahead of them, and in seconds Ghori had pushed open a thick door, propelling him forward through the entryway into what appeared to be a bunker. He caught a glimpse of huddled, small figures in the shifting light, the air thick with the scent of fear.

     Weakened by his injuries and disoriented by the sudden, overwhelming press of frantic minds, Spock stumbled and fell to his knees. Another wave hit and the cramped, stifled space fell into abrupt darkness amidst hissing whines. Spock heard the heavy door swing shut and then a small hand-held lamp illuminated Ghori’s pinched face. The hybrid leader was crouched next to the closed door, her small, silver weapon clutched in one hand. Her unmarred eye was fixed on him, and her thoughts were so clear that they played in his head almost audibly, colored by sharp emotion and unhindered by translation.

     _I cannot believe I brought him here. So stupid. I should have let him stay there and die. Now he knows where the children are. Will he hurt them? I will not let him. How is life in all forms precious when it comes to kill us? Oh, Nuli Farr, you were wrong! You were wrong! You were—!_

     “He…he was not wrong,” Spock said firmly, his voice carrying over the shaking floor.

     Ghori’s mouth fell open in a very human gesture, and the headlamp dropped to roll on the rough floor as she grasped the weapon in both hands. “You! You heard my thoughts? You—.”

     “Your thoughts were projected to me,” Spock replied calmly, aware that the children behind him had grown quiet. “The clarity is…is most unusual.” The others’ fear had not abated and now crawled under his skin. He forced himself to remain completely still, slouched and kneeling in the echoes of the fallen light, his hands at his sides. He forced his mind to remain open, and his expression to follow. He required any and all empathy that his mother’s heritage had incurred in him.

     “I do not violate your mind,” he emphasized. “I am…unable to keep strong emotion and thoughts out at present.”

     Ghori stared, her teeth bared. Despite the tremors all around them, her hands were steady on her weapon. “I do not believe you.” She spat. “The device that murdered our resistance was nothing they could see. It was of the mind! It was from you and your people and this proves it! We might die, but you will die first!”

     Spock swayed. “I was on La’ripka, but I was…damaged, too. I did not die, but I—.” He thought of Jim, suddenly, the captain’s screams ripping again through his mind with eidetic precision. He winced, bringing his hands to his face. What was left of Vulcan stoicism and his own personal inclination toward reservation was falling ever further away in a haze of growing pain and feebleness. “My…bondmate almost died, too, and other officers were killed. We did not do this thing you accuse us of. I could not…I felt the deaths of your champions, and those who served with me. I…I grieve with thee, Ghori.”

     Her shoulders drew up tensely; her expression was unreadable but he could sense that she did not believe him. She lifted the weapon slightly, and he could see her finger move, and then the barrage from above ground suddenly stopped, the incongruous silence seeming to echo around them.

     The children were hushed, waiting, and Ghori’s teeth bared again as she glanced around the darkened bunker. “They move on or they are coming to where we are trapped for certainty.” She hissed, lunging forward and grabbing Spock’s arm painfully. “You come with me.”

     The others’ hissing voices rose in protest, and she made a sharp, staccato noise, murmuring a firm command in the sibilance of her native language and yanking on the Vulcan’s arm.

     Spock somehow got his feet under him, shuffling at her side as she pulled the door, opening it to cautious half-light from broken fixtures along the walls. She moved forward, pushing him roughly to the side as she eased the door closed again and then motioned him ahead of her. His vision was becoming blurry, his legs and arms heavy and uncoordinated, but he did as she indicated and moved forward, heavily leaning against the wall, all but plastered along it for support and guidance in the dim lighting. The air was too cold and he was shivering again, and a dull glint of metal caught his eye too late.

     A brilliant bolt of energy streaked past him, and he heard Ghori’s ragged scream and the clatter of her pistol against the bare rock floor. Something large and spherical hovered past him, ignoring his presence completely as it bore down on the injured hybrid. Her mouth was open and her projected thoughts tore through Spock’s own mind. She recognized this thing, this drone; she knew it was going to kill her and then kill everyone they had left behind in that bunker and she couldn’t stop it…she couldn’t—.

     Summoning the very last of his strength, Spock shoved his body away from the sheltering wall and to the center of the corridor, hitting the uneven floor hard and curling his hands around the silver weapon. He depressed the trigger again and again, the pulses blowing apart the exposed rear of the drone. It fell to the floor with a heavy crash, energy sparking over its surface and illuminating Ghori’s face. He could not read her expression but her mind radiated stunned shock and disbelief. She thought he would kill her, next. She waited for the final blow, her thoughts repeating a desperate mantra: _Do not harm them. Kill me and go. Do not harm them_.

     “I…will do neither,” Spock said haltingly. He loosened his fingers, hearing the maw of the weapon scrape the floor. Pain and exhaustion were pulling him rapidly toward unconsciousness, but he forced himself to meet her eyes. “I am not…your enemy. I am…not—.”

     She was suddenly close, her injured arm held defensively tight to her side, peering down at him. He could feel her confusion and continued disbelief, and he thought suddenly of Jim. Spock wanted his bondmate’s comforting presence with helpless desperation and a bright flash of heat that, though rapidly extinguished, only proved that the fires of _pon farr_ were simply banked and not abated. He closed his eyes, not wanting another to read his vulnerability as he fell into a cacophony of uncontrolled emotion: pain and fear and sadness and need tore through him in waves and waves of anguish and yearning and grief. His exhausted body shook with the force of it and, as he plunged toward unconsciousness, the last thing he heard was Ghori’s shocked exclamation as her cool hand brushed his own over the weapon still held limply in his grasp.

 

 


	17. Skirting A Fine Edge

Chapter Seventeen: Skirting A Fine Edge

 

     Icy impatience slicked through Jim’s veins as he sat stiffly on the edge of the biobed, his hands were curled into the thin sheets on either side. He was openly fidgeting, something he never would have allowed himself if there’d been anyone there to witness it. As it was, Bones had been gone for almost an hour and no one, not even a nurse or security guard, had ventured into the small room.

     It felt damn cold, but the captain knew that his perception had nothing to do with the actual temperature and everything to do with the ebbing influence of the morinerin-B. His recovered memories were still intact, and he could recognize an undertone of uncomfortable emotional resonance that seemed to be steadily escalating. Any direct impressions of Spock were elusive, but Jim sensed flashes of distant pain. The knowledge of what was happening to his bondmate only made things worse. Jim remembered Spock’s shaking hands and growing vulnerability as the fever had progressed the first time; he remembered the Vulcan’s final, helpless irrationality as the desert gong rang.

     And Jim could not forget McCoy’s description of what would happen, at the end: _if it isn't stopped somehow, the physical and emotional pressures will simply kill him_. If it isn’t stopped… . Jim shivered, releasing his grip on the sheets to chafe his upper arms, his skin feeling overly sensitive. He recalled his friend’s careful, artful caresses, the warmth of Spock’s mouth, the undeniable look of adoration in brown eyes, and Jim bowed his head in grief at what he had lost on La’ripka and then again on the surface of Epsilon Doroni III. So far away, and all he needed to do was touch his bondmate; all he needed to do for that uniquely Vulcan affliction was to _touch_ in such a human way. No, Jim corrected himself, it would require more, and _that_ he wanted so badly. He needed to touch, to taste, to journey along the body of his friend and soothe his pain, to assure Spock that what they shared was restored. He wanted to feel his bondmate’s arousal and feel his pleasure and press their hands and mouths together as they came—.

     Bitter heat burst transiently over his senses and his head swam with sudden disorientation. He felt… _disconnected_ , on the verge of a headlong rush, and he gritted his teeth, willing himself to hold on and to avoid succumbing again to the psionic coma that Bones had assured him was looming in the wake of the lapsing drug’s mitigating effect.

     Their bond was unbroken. Frayed, but unbroken; wrought with real and imagined pain and emotional wreckage, but still persisting. Stubborn. _Human_. Jim sniffed with ironic amusement, fastening onto that unlikely descriptor for such an alien thing. He shifted on the bed, closing his eyes, thinking suddenly of Spock’s human mother, to whom he likely already owed his life. Disjointedly, he wondered how much Amanda knew of her son’s new bondmate. He also wondered, more morbidly, what part she had played in the selection of a woman who had ended up coldly rejecting Spock and calculating his death.

     _Spock_. A new note of pain bloomed deep in Jim’s mind and the cold impossibly deepened, settling along his limbs and crackling with a keen sense of urgency. He gasped, feeling dizziness swell and the pain compound, the darkness behind his closed eyelids seeming to deepen and fall away and there was something, _someone_ , at the center of the pain, of the urgency, drawing him in to a place he wanted desperately to go… . _I’m coming to you._

     “Jim.  Jim! Can you hear me?”

     The sharp hiss of a hypospray jerked Jim back into the dim lighting of the room and he choked, realizing that he was on the floor, one hand outstretched, reaching out into nothingness. The disconnected feeling faded rapidly away and the replacing sense of isolation was overwhelming.

     “I can see him—,” Jim murmured. “Bones, I can find—.”

     “As you can plainly observe, Doctor Farshori, we’re losing ground here,” McCoy interrupted loudly, his hands gently pressing Jim’s shoulders against the floor, fingers squeezing in a warning gesture. “The morinerin was working, at first, but I need to understand what’s causing its rapid decline in effectiveness; he shouldn’t have needed another dosage for several hours.”

     Jim heard an exaggerated sigh and a dry, unfamiliar voice. “And what do you want me to do about that, Doctor?”

     “I need to get Captain Kirk over to my lab on the _Enterprise_ right away.”

     There was another, deeper sigh. “I’m even older than you are, Doctor McCoy, so you can imagine that I’m quite adept at identifying bullshit when I hear it.”

     McCoy’s hands tightened. “This isn’t bullshit! Check the readings yourself!”

     “I have,” the voice, presumably Farshori, continued blandly, “and I don’t see the need for—.”

     “Right,” McCoy cut in sarcastically. “Well, if you won’t clear me to take him over to the ship, I suppose you’ll need to send a nurse for your own inverse Tournier-Kaye wave spectrometer.”

     Farshori scoffed. “Obviously we don’t have such a device; it’s as experimental as the drug you used. _Inadvisably_ used, I might add.”

     “There’re a lot of times when ‘experimental’ is three steps ahead of what you’ve got to work with.” McCoy’s voice turned cutting. “But you’re older than I am, so you’re bound to know that much about deep space, at least.”

     “I don’t appreciate your attitude, Doctor,” Farshori replied.

     “And I don’t appreciate the damn delay!” McCoy shot back. “There’s no security risk—look at him! Now, are you going to approve my request and let me help this patient or are we both going to have to stand in front of a board and describe how we let Fleet’s most decorated captain die?”

     There was a chilled silence. “I’ll approve it, Doctor McCoy,” Farshori said reluctantly. “But if we do end up standing in front of that board, I imagine they’ll be more interested in the reason for the captain’s injury in the first place, which, I believe, falls squarely and solely under your own responsibility.”

     “Obviously,” McCoy retorted. “I’m going to take him over right away; make sure Security knows not to try to shoot us.”

     Farshori let out a tight noise. “Since you’ll be escorted, I doubt that will be a problem. Wait here for a gurney.”

     The sound of angrily scuffing boot heels and the swipe and swish of the door punctuated the tense silence behind the departing physician and McCoy removed his hands. “We don’t have much time, Jim. How are you—?”

     “I’m okay, Bones.” Jim licked his lips and shakily pushed himself up. He was still cold, but he could move; he _had_ to move. “The drug’s kicked in, but before it did I could feel—.”

     “You were _feeling_ your way right back into a coma,” McCoy interrupted dryly. “Stay on the floor, goddammit, you’re supposed to be practically unconscious and mostly incoherent. If anyone sees you like this the whole jig is up!”

     Jim rolled his shoulders in frustration, eyeing the closed door. “Did Uhura find a ship?”

     “Not exactly.”

     “We need to—.”

     “Shut up, Captain, and lie down.” McCoy stood, walking briskly around the small room and gathering instruments. “We just have to get over to the _Enterprise_ ; that’s all Uhura said.”

     Jim reluctantly stretched out on the hard floor, wincing at the added chill. “They’ll be able to trace any signal from there just as easily,” he muttered stubbornly.

     “Shut up, Jim.”

     “There aren’t any ore prospectors in dock? We just need a skiff with warp speed, shields and—.”

     “Sssshhhh!” McCoy hissed, and Jim closed his eyes just as the door slid open.

     Farshori’s voice was dripping with irritation. “Nurse Dvorak will help you with the gurney, and a security detail will accompany you.” He exhaled loudly through his nose. “I’ll expect you to bring him back here as soon as the scan is complete, and I’d also like to see the results for myself.”

     Jim peeked through his lashes as he was lifted onto the gurney, a blanket placed over his body. Farshori was glaring as McCoy replied flippantly, “Don’t worry, Doctor. I’ll have Kirk back in irons before your boss calls.”

     “You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” Farshori retorted silkily, and Jim surreptitiously bit the inside of his cheek as the gurney came to an abrupt halt, one of McCoy’s hands resting on his midsection to steady the prone captain’s body.

     “Just what does that mean?” McCoy demanded.

     “What do you think it means?” Farshori spat. “You’re out in space for five years and you fancy yourselves gods. You think you know what’s best for everyone, and damn the chain of command. Damn everything to gain an advantage.”

     “What advantage?” McCoy asked sharply. “What are you talking about?”

     “Kirk overreached and now he’s paying for it. Did he think that none of this would have consequences?”

     “How’s that?” McCoy said, and Jim tried not to appear to be holding his breath.

     Farshori’s reply took too long, and when it came it was oddly tinged with satisfaction. “Let’s just say that when Kirk played his hand, he should have played it all the way.”

     McCoy sputtered, “What—?”

     “Measures had to be taken.”

     “Measures like premeditated murder and unsanctioned invasions? Measures like—?”

     Jim moaned, deliberately interrupting McCoy’s outburst.

     “Goddammit,” Bones snapped.

     “You sure you want to bother with that scan, Doctor?” Farshori asked lightly. “Maybe you should just let nature take its course and you might get out of this with your career after all.”

     Jim could feel the gurney shift as his friend pushed it roughly, the doctor making a choked noise before barking, “Let’s go, Dvorak. What the hell are you waiting for?”

     McCoy was still muttering under his breath as the gurney jostled along the corridors, and Jim felt cooler air across his face. He heard footsteps alongside them: Dvorak and the security team, evidently. He heard others’ voices from a distance as they proceeded, along with an occasional shocked murmur. His teeth ground together as he thought of any of his crew seeing him this way, but he knew they had no choice. And he identified the distinctive ozone-like scent of a transport chamber even as he felt the slightly hair-raising sensation of the positive stasis field surround his body as they moved over the pads.

     “Are we ready?” Bones asked darkly, his hand still resting on Jim’s abdomen over the blanket.

     “Ready,” replied a disembodied voice to Jim’s left. “Energize.”

     Transport was an odd thing without sight; the brief disorientation much more immediate and pressing, and Jim’s fingers curled into the thin padding on the gurney. One instant he was on the starbase, and the next he was unmistakably on the _Enterprise_ , and as his fingernails scraped into the plastiform covering he heard the sound of close-range phaser bursts, one after another, and the impact of bodies on the floor. His eyes flew open to see the familiar configuration of overhead transport dynamos, and, as he lowered his gaze, the more familiar dark eyes of Lieutenant Uhura.

     Her expression changed instantly from steel intensity to relief and affection as she lowered her phaser and walked toward the pads. “Doctor McCoy, you said there’d be no more than three!” she exclaimed.

     Jim pushed the blanket away and swung his legs over the side of the gurney as McCoy shrugged and replied, “Sorry, darlin’. I had complete confidence in your skills, though. Remember Beta Thenarius?”

     Uhura shook her head. “I’d rather not, actually.”

     McCoy smiled and offered Jim his hand. The captain shook his head, stubbornly finding his own footing and squaring his shoulders, sparing only a single glance down at the stunned security detail and the insensate Nurse Dvorak. McCoy moved away from Jim’s side, bending over the fallen guards, and the captain heard the repeated hiss of a hypospray being administered as a smug-looking Mr. Scott emerged from behind the transporter console.

     Uhura had straightened to attention. “Welcome aboard, Captain,” she said clearly.

     Jim managed a weak smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” He raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Scott.”

     Scotty inclined his head. “Aye, sir.”

     “I’m happy to see you both,” Jim said, crossing his arms, “but I have to admit I’m a little surprised to be back here, the security situation being what it is.”

     “There’s a good reason, sir,” Uhura said crisply. She glanced up at Scotty. “A few reasons, in fact.”

     “But we dinnae ha’ much time,” Scotty added quickly.

     “I know,” Jim replied. “Are we transporting over to another ship?”

     “No, sir,” Uhura answered carefully. “We’re—.” She paused suddenly, taking a deep breath. “Sir, Mr. Spock is alive?”

     “Yes,” Jim said. He saw her eyes close. “He’s alive.”

     Uhura’s eyes opened again, unshed tears glimmering. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something else but couldn’t.

     “He’s alive,” Jim emphasized. “We’re going to bring him home.” His open hands fell to his sides as he met her gaze, and Scotty’s. He knew that they were taking this on faith; offering their careers and possibility their lives in trust and duty to him, and to Spock. And for the greater conflict. “We’re going to do what we can to make this situation right.”

     “Well, these guys’ll be out for at least another four hours,” cut in McCoy, the doctor coming over to stand next to Scott and eyeing the captain suspiciously. “You okay, Jim? Is it wearing off already?”

     Jim shook his head quickly, turning to the others and gathering himself. “I imagine you two have a plan?”

     Scotty and Uhura exchanged a glance. “Aye, tha’ we do, sir,” the engineer replied. “It’ll take a miracle, but,” the Scotsman chuckled, “when has it nae been so?”

     “Speaking of miracles,” Jim began quietly, “I have one of my own I need to tell you about.” McCoy’s expression softened and Jim continued pointedly, “As soon as we’re on our way to the Doroni system.”

     “Aye, I hear ye, sir,” Scotty said. “Let’s get up to th’ bridge, then. Sulu’ll have th’ helm jus’ about ready, I’ll bet, an’ Alvarez should be finished wi’ th’ engineering redirects.”

     “Sulu?” Jim asked somewhat breathlessly. His stubborn stance wavered, but he refused to reach out for the gurney in order to steady himself.

     McCoy sighed, reaching out and deliberately taking Jim’s arm in support. “I told you I’d know where to find a pilot,” he said firmly.

     “ _I_ found the pilot, Doctor,” Uhura corrected sweetly. “And recruited our science specialist. To the bridge, Captain?”

     “Aye, aye, Lieutenant” Jim replied lightly, trying to mask growing weakness. The effectiveness of the morinerin was indeed flagging, but damn if he was going to tell Bones about it until he absolutely had to. “To the bridge.”

           

~.~

 

     Spock felt consciousness return slowly, physical sensations crawling into reluctant reality. He had dreamed, perhaps, or, more likely, was slipping in and out of delirium. He had imagined a pathway forming out of seething rock, reminiscent of the impossibly smooth tunnels of Janus VI and just as alarmingly inexplicable. And, like that fateful mission to the mining planet, Jim was somewhere out of sight. Spock had reached with mind and body, persisting even as the pathway had disappeared into flame, dissolving into heat and madness. And something remained along the damaged remnants of the bond. He had felt Jim. He had _known_ his bondmate’s mind and the connection between them had flared bright and fierce for a searing instant before retreating again, leaving nothing but smoldering darkness and a whispered promise: _I’m coming to you._ Now, even that seemed as ash, threatening to disappear into the wind with his sanity soon to follow.

     The fever had returned. Weakened by lack of proper medical attention, his strength depleted even further by fighting the _iyustala_ , he felt hollowed and sick, the pain from his injuries paling in relation to an ache that had taken residence in his lower chest and a steady burning sensation along his limbs. _Homesick, heartsick, dying_ ; he could not now dispute it. The dulled remnants of the bond could no longer bear the strain; he himself could no longer avoid the consequences of the powerful Vulcan connection between mind and body. The mindless _plak tow_ was returning and would be vicious. However, Spock consoled himself, it would be quick; his endurance was nearly at an end.

     Consciousness expanded reluctantly into shivering awareness of the chill, dry air surrounding him, the subtle shift in gravity, the low notes of running engines. _Engines_. Spock opened his eyes, wincing immediately at overly bright lights. His senses swirled with disorientation, and then he caught a familiar presence.

     “Ghori,” Spock said, his voice rough and dry.

     “Starfleet,” she replied shortly, the syllables trailing off into an uncomfortable clicking hiss.

     He blinked, focusing on her curled form several meters away. Beyond his own body’s empty pain, he could perceive her radiating tension and then, beneath him, the undeniable sensation of motion: vibration, minute shifts in the atmosphere. They were on a ship.

     “I felt—,” Ghori growled haltingly, “I felt truth.” She was nearly panting, her mouth hanging open, and her fear washed over him along with the faint scent of her body and the undiscernible whisper of her thoughts. “We will die well.”

     Spock remained silent, flattening his palms against the cold deck. “I do not understand.”

     She inhaled deeply with a sibilant sound, moving heavily to push herself up and to crawl forward toward his side. He could sense the mental wash of latent injury from her and, clearer still, desperate determination. She hissed, pushing her face close enough for him to feel her breath on his skin. “I feel from you.”

     And then Spock remembered her skin inadvertently brushing his as she had reached for his weapon, his mind wholly uncontrolled and his thoughts of Jim.

     “I am a telepath and my ability to control—.” He trailed off, closing his eyes and turning his face away. He was so tired and couldn’t find the words to explain. Logic reminded him of her reaction in the bunker, when she had been ready to kill him for what she had seen as a violation. And it had been a violation; he could not control; his shielding was worthless. “It was not my choice. I apologi—.”

     Her voice trembled as she anxiously interrupted, “You have anger as we. You have love as we.” He looked at her again as she leaned back suddenly with a low grunt of pain, rubbing one long-fingered hand over a discoloration across her head. The viscous fluid was dripping from her clouded eye again. “We have the same enemies. We have anger to the same. Close enough.”

     “I am Vulcan,” Spock whispered. “I harbor no anger.”

     She grunted something like an expletive, shifting forward again. “That is a lie. You will assist me!”

     “Assist,” he repeated, opening his eyes again, his mind working, however sluggishly. “You mean this ship.”

     She hissed approvingly, her torso swaying. “You will assist.” She reached back and slid a small nondescript container toward him. “Drink. Water. Drink.” Her tone was now gentle, and sad.

     Spock rolled onto his side and she pushed the container fully into his hand. The water was warm and held a metallic taste, but he couldn’t help gulping it down, throat and chest muscles straining.

     Ghori unblinkingly watched him. “We found the drone ship. Waiting. We took it.” She paused. “I took it. Took you. To pretend to the _nli’ni’ripahn_ that nothing had happened to the drone; to protect those left; it automatically returned to space with us onboard.”

     He let the empty container drop to the deck, pushing himself up to a slumped seated position. “Where are we now?”

     She shifted, her head moving side-to-side. “I do not know. Space. Close enough.”

     “Close enough?”

     “Close enough to die.” She closed her eyes, the bright interior lights glinting off the silver scars crossing her exposed skin. “Your enemies, and mine. They understand nothing but death and pain and betrayal so death we will give them.” Ghori spread her long fingers in a loose gesture at the craft’s walls. “From their own hand, from this ship.” Her hands clapped together in a startling noise and Spock flinched as she opened her eyes again. “Crash! You can operate.”

     “No,” Spock said quietly, “I will not kill.”

     Her face contorted. “Peace helps no one,” she hissed. “Hope helps no one; hope is weakness. We hold a debt that must be paid. Blood vengeance for lifetimes of pain. For slaughter of we, the _vjilerit_. For pain of you! For your bondmate, yes?” Her voice was high-pitched, her expression hard, her breath coming in wheezes. “I felt your anger; do not lie again!”

     “I am not—,” Spock began, grimacing against the onslaught of her fury.

     Ghori spat a long slurry in her native language, talons gouging into the decking beneath her. She slid toward him again and he recoiled to curl away on to his knees against the nearest bulkhead.

     “This is the necessary path; why you not understand? You were wronged! You are not afraid; you destroyed the drone!”

     “There are other paths than this, Ghori.”

     “Touch me!” she cried abruptly. “Know _this_ pain of we! Know _why_ this must be done! Must understand!”

     She moved toward him again aggressively, and he shook his head, evading her. “What you ask is violation. I have no control!”

      “Know my truth! As I felt yours, know mine now. Now!”

     She was stronger than him, driven by something deep-seated and undeniable and even as his head hit the bulkhead trying to escape her, she pushed her hands against his face, nails scratching into his skin, her single black eye depthless—.

     It was not a meld but a drastic crashing of consciousness, and he struggled simply to keep his sanity in the rush of alien perception that flooded his mind-sense. Spock saw her motivation, inspired by what she had felt when she had touched him before. She had felt his love for his _t’hy’la_ and his anger for what had befallen them. She had tasted the truth of his emotions and inferred that he might help her in this desperate act. She believed that it was necessary to destroy the cruel overlords who had created her and dictated her every action, who had used her and her kind and murdered those who would defend them, who had dared to give them hope. She, too, was heartsick and alone. She, too, was weak and yet trying to fight. She, too, had sacrificed herself to save those she loved.

     Ghori’s mental conviction cut into his mind; she had seen something of his own thoughts and memories: of La’ripka, of the opportune attack on the _Yi’pera_ , of Spock’s horrible suspicion that the responsibility for all of this may lie with the very organization he had pledged to serve, and the deeper guilt that he had not known of the plight of her people. Her undisciplined, frantic mind battered his own, flailing, screaming uncontrolled emotion against what was left of his innermost shields. He could not escape and she was not letting go, determined to force him to understand and to do what she wanted. It was her only plan, it was a penance and a price and a scream of loneliness and grief and despair—.

_Let me help, but not in that way._ There was nothing left; nowhere to hide, and Spock chose, at the last, to open his mind fully to hers. He could not help the powerful force of emotion born of the resurgent _pon farr_ , but he tried with all his remaining strength to focus his thoughts, to let her see every piece of him, letting her see a lifetime of respect for other beings and a profound certainty that Nuli Farr’s way, and Diriu Li’Ssuk’s, was the correct choice, the insurgents’ lives not wasted. He let her see what might come with exposure of the worst offenses of these others, of Starfleet’s betraying admiral and of the _nli’ni’ripahn_ evil. Letting her see what he himself had been willing to endure for the Horta’s life, for the lives of those agonized souls on Deneva. Letting her see his pain and isolation in the throes of the damaged bond that would inevitably end in his own horrific death, and gladly so, if it only meant that his beloved would be safe _._ _Jim, my t’hy’la, I am so sorry…I am so sorry—._

     Her gasps echoed against the bulkheads as they separated, as she flung herself away. Completely spent, Spock slumped back against the wall, looking up at her helplessly as she slowly composed herself, a thin trickle of blood falling from her slitted nostrils.

     “Even now you would not kill?” she murmured listlessly.

     “I have killed,” he said hoarsely. “I have killed, but I choose not to do so, now. Let me help. We have a ship.”

     “Where would we go that we would not be hunted?” Ghori asked, lifting a thin hand to wipe her face, smearing the blood across her cheek. “Who will listen?”

     Spock leaned his head back as his blood burned. It should have been impossible, but for a bare instant he had felt Jim’s intentions: focused and intense and primitive. His bondmate was alive, aware, and…determined. _I’m on my way._

     “We must…we must get to the system boundary,” he whispered. “We must…hurry.”

                       

~.~

 

     The turbolift doors slid open to the welcoming lights and sounds of the bridge, and Jim spared only a quick glance toward the empty chair at the science station before stepping forward to meet Sulu, rising from the helm.

     “Captain!” the younger man exclaimed with a huge grin. “You made it!”

     “Mostly,” Jim said wryly. He was leaning even more heavily on McCoy’s support, his head pounding and his body beginning to shiver. Uhura gently touched the captain’s arm as she passed him on the way to navigation, and Scotty immediately moved to the engineering station.

     “So,” Jim began, allowing Bones to guide him to the center seat, “we’ve got less than an hour until we’re definitively missed over there. How are we going to do this?”

     Uhura sat down and spun to face the captain. “I should wait for Alvarez to clarify the fine points, but you recall, of course, substance KA-12-167.”

     Jim frowned. “Ambiguite?”

     “Yes,” she replied. “And you remember its primary properties.”

     “I remember that there’s still a measurable concentration remaining in the survivors of that landing party. And that it has an impact on our sensors.” His frown deepened. “And that HQ added it to its experimental section for further evaluation.”

     The turbolift doors hissed, and Jim turned his head to see Lieutenant Alvarez appear, wearing a red engineering jumpsuit, her dark hair pulled into a haphazard ponytail. She looked excited, nodding rapidly, obviously having caught the tail-end of Uhura’s words.

     “Captain, it’s good to see you, sir!” Alvarez began. “The sensor impact is the key point, of course. And Command may have added it to the investigatory docket, but their scientists aren’t nearly as efficient as they should be.” She smirked. “Too many lunch breaks and fresh air, maybe. Our teams here kept working on it even through the Doroni affair, and we were able to figure a way to introduce trace amounts of ambiguite to the shield energy field matrix. Tuning the matrix dynamically allows for a significant disruption to any focused scanning signal in our vicinity, including targeting.”

     Scotty cleared his throat and the lieutenant shrugged, amending, “I mean, it works when we’re at warp, sir. In normal space it isn’t nearly as effective. Yet. We’d still need to—.”

     Uhura raised her hand. “Essentially, Captain, once we make the transition to warp, we’ll be invisible. We’ll be able to evade pursuit.”

     “They’re gonna have a pretty good guess as to where we’re heading,” McCoy said, waving his medical scanner surreptitiously behind Jim’s shoulder.

     “Maybe not, Doctor, and even so, it’s a big system,” Uhura said. “And if they assume that we’re going to try to avoid detection once we get there, we should be able to arrange a rendezvous with the _Reliant_.”

     Sulu nodded his head. “A fast braking maneuver out of warp immediately in the other ship’s vicinity might do it, sir. If we keep the shields up, the ambiguite effect might confuse long-range sensors into thinking we’re a sensor shadow.”

     “There’s another advantage to the ambiguite, Captain,” Alvarez added eagerly, stepping down next to the forward console. “It’s also how we might be able to locate Mr. Spock!”

     Jim rubbed at his temple, tensely watching a small security shuttle move lazily across the forward viewscreen. “Lieutenant, I was under the impression that ambiguite was being evaluated for use as a cloak, and your previous description only confirms that. How would—?”

     The younger woman was practically bouncing on her toes. “Yes, sir! But it also had an effect we didn’t initially account for! It…it reacts to itself!”

     Jim blinked. “Alvarez, I don’t—.”

     Scotty spoke up from the upper level. “Sir, th’ presence of a certain concentration of th’ substance might cause an impact on shield flux, if we’ve got it configured properly. It’ll be small, but measureable. We may be able to narrow in on Mr. Spock’s location.”

     “It’s a needle in a haystack, Captain,” Uhura said, “but we might be able to come up with something better once we get out there and assess the situation.”

     They were all looking at Jim eagerly, and the captain lowered his eyes. “I think I can help with that,” he said quietly. He licked his lips, feeling Bones’ hand on his shoulder. “I know we don’t have time to get into this, but I share a…mental link of sorts with Spock. It’s how we know he’s alive and it plays a part in why Komack seems to be taking this particular action against me and this ship. I believe I can help locate him.”

     Uhura’s eyes were huge, but she nodded gamely. Scotty cleared his throat in the sudden silence, and Sulu only inclined his head, his expression grave and unsurprised.

     Alvarez was obliviously pointing at the captain. “That’s great, sir! We can better tune the location parameters! We can—!”

     “Lieutenant,” Jim interrupted tiredly. “Let’s concentrate for now on the impossible task of _getting_ to warp speed in order for this tactic of yours to actually work. We’re working with less than a skeleton crew and have starbase defenses to worry about.”

     “Aye, sir,” Scotty said, clearing his throat again. “Speakin’ o’ that’, Mr. Sulu, do ye have those bypasses connected yet?”

     “Yes, Mr. Scott,” Sulu replied crisply. “I just finished. Uhura?”

     The communications officer turned to check the navigational board. “All my indicators show a successful transfer. I programmed a background ping from this console to prevent detection of our overrides.”

     “Right.” Scotty picked up a tricorder from where it had rested on the engineering console. “Mr. Sulu, Miss Alvarez, ye’re wi’ me. Captain, we’re going to set up in auxiliary control. Should take abou’ fifteen minutes and then we’ll be as ready as we’ll ever be.”

     “I’ll be down in a minute, Scotty,” Jim said, watching his chief engineer lead the two younger officers into the turbolift.

     As the doors hissed shut, Uhura swung her seat back. “Aux control is—.”

     “—the easiest place to run the ship with limited crew,” Jim finished. “Of course.” He slumped slightly in the center seat, sensing McCoy hover even closer. “Bones, back off,” he murmured. “I’m as fine as I’ll ever be, considering.”

     “You’re not fine at all, Jim,” McCoy replied. “Just this side of a psionic coma and still physically weak from that shuttle crash.” He scowled. “And all I can do is pump you full of an experimental goddamn serum that doesn’t seem to be doing very much good anymore.”

     Uhura was watching them closely, her brow furrowed. “Captain—,” she began cautiously, one hand moving toward him before she stopped the motion, returning her hand to her lap.

     He smiled sadly, still curled over. “It happened when we went to Vulcan, Nyota. You remember the woman Spock introduced as his wife?”

     “T’Pring,” Uhura said. “I remember.”

     McCoy guffawed. “Piece of work, that one.”

     Jim ignored his friend. “It’s complicated, but it turned out they weren’t quite married yet and—.” He trailed off, his eyes moving away as he remembered Spock’s unexpected pronouncement as the ship had entered orbit around Vulcan just before the _kalifee_.

     In that moment, Jim had believed that his friend was finally safe and no matter the consequences to his own career. In that fleeting moment, he had believed that Spock would find solace among the mysteries of his own people. Bright anger rose in him afresh as he considered what had actually transpired: conspiracy, betrayal, demands of death, and, finally, even after unlikely survival, the final indignity of _vre’kasht_. Jim felt his teeth grind together, felt his knuckles crack as his hands curled into tight fists. All that, and then the horror of La’ripka. Damage to the bond had caused Jim to forget and the fires of _pon farr_ had returned, and Spock was forced to face it alone. Alone…always alone. _No_ , Jim thought fiercely, willing his mind to somehow follow the obscured, wounded path along their weakened bond, _I’m on my way, my friend_.

     “Jim,” Bones prompted softly, and Jim focused again on Uhura, forcibly relaxing his hands and straightening stiffly in his seat.

     “They ended up not getting married after all,” Jim continued roughly, “due to a very significant action on the part of the bride-to-be.” He paused, swallowing heavily. “Spock ended up with a mental link to me, instead.

     “Significant,” McCoy muttered. “That’s a word and a half for what she pulled.”

     “Spock never said anything about what happened,” Uhura said slowly, “but I knew that he was in some distress before he beamed down to Vulcan and even after he came back. Time seemed to help, and music.” She lowered her eyes. “And then La’ripka changed everything again; I’ve never seen him so lost and so…hurt.”

     Jim couldn’t help a small noise and she gazed at him, reaching to touch his hand. “It makes…sense about the two of you, Jim, especially with La’ripka.”

     “Yes,” Jim agreed forlornly. “I suffered memory loss. Our link was damaged and I couldn’t recall certain things for a time, including what had happened between us or that there was even something there and Spock—. It was only after we were rescued from the surface of III and I woke up that I remembered, and he was gone—.” He trailed off again, jagged emotion rising within him, and he knew it showed blatantly on his face. He instinctively fought against it even as he saw its reflection on Uhura’s face, her dark eyes gleaming with unshed tears.

     “The link’s not broken, which is how we know that Spock’s alive,” McCoy interjected gruffly, shuffling a step closer and addressing Uhura. “He’s in some real trouble, though.” McCoy cleared his throat, continuing acidly, “Komack’s hopeful assertion that our first officer is dead might not be that far from the actual truth.”

     “Captain,” Uhura began slowly, breaking the taut silence, “may I speak freely?”

     Jim offered her a sad smile. “Of course.”

     “From what I could gather from the brief communication with Captain Alvarez, the connection to Vulcan may be important.”

     “What do you mean?” McCoy asked.

     She leaned back in the navigation seat, crossing her arms. “Captain Alvarez thinks that Komack’s apparent irritation with Vulcan is masking a near-obsession. He’s frustrated with the pacifist influence that Vulcan has on the Federation Council and on Starfleet directives and is upset by the ‘off-limits’ attitude associated with high-level technology and research coming out of the Science Academy.” She bit her lip. “Captain Alvarez was not the least bit surprised that Komack may have fastened on the relationship between you and Mr. Spock, and her reaction was based in part because of Komack might stand to lose because of it.”

     “I don’t follow you, Lieutenant,” Jim said. He couldn’t help slumping again in his chair, his head swimming, and his muscles weak. The feeling of disconnection was returning, and it was advancing faster than before.

     “Mr. Spock is the first Vulcan in Starfleet,” Uhura continued. “He is, willingly or not, the most visible representative of his planet to the Federation, aside from the diplomatic corps. And he’s the only Vulcan serving apart. The _Intrepid_ was commissioned, but her crew didn’t attend Starfleet Academy; her missions are carefully selected to be non-confrontational.”

     “So Spock’s not your typical well-behaved, well-controlled Vulcan,” said McCoy. “Not really a shock to anyone.”

     “It might be if he’s linked, literally, to the captain of the flagship!” Uhura exclaimed. “Politics, gentlemen; think about it!”

     McCoy spun suddenly to look at Jim. “Is that what that quack Farshori was getting at? Political advantage? Seriously?”

     Jim bowed his head, holding a trembling hand to his forehead. “Not so farfetched, Bones. Spock’s family’s influential, if you remember. At least, T’Pau herself presided at his wedding and then went so far as to intercede for me directly. That debacle after the _kalifee_ was perhaps just bad timing, and Komack took our apparent association to be some sort of immediate threat.”

     McCoy sniffed. “Apparently Komack didn’t get the memo about Spock being permanently ostracized from his home planet.”

     Uhura’s eyebrows shot up and Jim brought his other hand up, pressing fingers to his temples. “It probably didn’t matter by that point,” he said weakly.

     “And there’s that goddamn psionic weapon!” McCoy hissed. “It was under Komack’s secret authority and he must have known that its use would send fractures through the Federation, stolen or not.” He crossed his arms. “There you have it, Jim. He’s been waiting for years and when that coup broke out he finally saw his chance to get around the diplomats. And talk about a flock of birds with one stone! He set you up, discouraged interference, and made it impossible for Starfleet to back down. If Komack had the motivation to plant that weapon and set it off, I wouldn’t put it past him to have orchestrated the carefully-timed attack on the third planet. I bet he’s been playing all sides of that conflict, weakening the Doroni system forces from the inside!”

     Uhura brought her hands to her mouth. “The _Yi’pera_ ’s commander, Boro Harr, did emphasize a trade partnership. As if that’d been the carrot that had encouraged them to continue with the negotiations. The rebels had been neutralized by the weapon, and then the establishment forces were hit by that surprise attack on the complex.”

     “Dear god,” McCoy breathed, “Komack can’t be acting alone; how many other people are involved with this?”

     “Damn.” Jim grunted. “Damn.” He stood up abruptly, swaying and pushing away McCoy’s hands. “You were right, Bones. You were right about all of it. And you, too, Nyota. Goddamn.” He took a step and crumpled, collapsing onto the hard deck.

     “Jim!” McCoy knelt beside him, Uhura on his other side. “Take it easy.”

     “Komack saw Spock’s refusal of the _Intrepid_ and our relationship and even T’Pau’s intervention as a warning,” Jim whispered. “And he sent us to Epsilon Doroni to die and to precipitate this action, backing Vulcan off and advancing a militaristic agenda, a method of subterfuge that might be applied again and again to other reluctant systems. I wouldn’t have believed it. I almost can’t, even now. Everything we believe in—.”

     McCoy was fussing with his medkit. “You’re half-conscious and still speaking coherently. No wonder Spock’s so taken with you.”

     “We have to stop Komack,” Uhura stated simply. “Captain Alvarez suspects, but doesn’t have anything actionable. And the Federation Council and Starfleet Command are completely polarized on how to proceed; it all happened so fast. It’s up to us, Captain.”

     “And Spock,” said Jim softly.

     The normal lighting on the bridge abruptly shifted into the flash of the red alert signal, the significance obvious even with the siren muted. It was time.

     “Get me down to auxiliary control,” Jim ordered weakly, struggling to stand. “Bones, give me another shot of that stuff; I’m not going to make it much farther.” He saw McCoy and Uhura exchange a glance over his head and then McCoy reluctantly pressed a hypospray against Jim’s arm. The sense of displacement faded and Jim steadied himself, catching his breath and, unabashedly leaning on his friends’ support, making it to his feet.  “Thank you,” he sighed, feeling McCoy huff against him.

     “It’s not going to last long, Jim,” the doctor cautioned.

     Uhura tightened her grip. “Let’s go find him, Captain.”

     Jim swallowed. The discomfort in his body and mind was shifting, changing from a harsh throbbing into a painful burning sensation. “We have to hurry,” he gasped.

 

 


	18. To Hell With Subtlety

Chapter Eighteen: To Hell With Subtlety

 

     The auxiliary control room was cool and quiet. Breathless. There was no center seat; no steady chatter of background reports and instruments; no sweep of hurrying officers; no sirens; no hierarchy. This place was meant for efficiency and for the direst of circumstances, and this day, this hour, was no exception.

     Jim sat, hunched in a chair next to the starboard secondary console, his hands clenched into fists despite his best effort at the appearance of normalcy. His brow was beaded with sweat and his body was all but shaking. He was in pain: searing spasms along his body and pounding through his head, and the experience came with the helpless knowledge that he could nothing to alleviate it except push forward. It came with the devastating realization that his bondmate was suffering the same, most likely magnified a hundred times. The small crew, even Bones, pretended not to notice the captain’s condition; now that they were here on the brink of this desperate action it was, quite simply, immaterial. And Jim would hold on for Spock, as his friend had done so many times for him.

     Jim cleared his throat, hearing McCoy’s soft shuffle as the doctor braced himself behind him. Ahead, at the single console, Sulu and Uhura exchanged a glance and the helmsman turned to nod at the captain.

     “We’re ready, sir,” Sulu said. “I’ve got the green light from Engineering.”

     “Very well,” Jim replied, leaning forward. “This is going to have to be fast and quiet. Belay shields or automatic alert systems; the energy signature will give us away immediately. Uhura, recommend a shearing vector normal to the docking plane.”

     “Aye, Captain,” Uhura said, hands moving quickly over the navigation screens. “Plotted and on the board.”

     “Can we push impulse point seven?”

     “I can go point eight, sir,” answered Sulu, “cutting to warp as soon as we’ve exceeded the structural interference envelope.”

     Uhura added, “I estimate we’ll be vulnerable for fifty-six seconds, Captain.”

     “Noted.” Jim punched the intercom to Engineering with one fist. “Kirk here. Alvarez? Is the ambiguite sequencing up and running?”

     _“Ready to go!”_ chirped Alvarez. _“As soon as we get to warp we’ll be practically invisible. If this stuff works like the simulations, we could pop in five-hundred klicks from anywhere, completely undetected.”_

     “Just make sure you don’t break anything, Lieutenant,” Jim said dryly. “We don’t have the hands to put her back together out there.”

     _“Aye, Captain,”_ Scott’s voice agreed sternly. _“Ah’ll keep ma’ eye on the bairns for ye.”_

     Jim flipped the channel closed and McCoy sniffed. “I don’t think Scotty likes scientists near his engines,” commented the doctor.

     The captain shut his eyes briefly, remembering a cold start from an untested intermix formula and a half-Vulcan scientist who was always welcome on Scotty’s decks. “No way around it,” said Jim tightly, opening his eyes again to the viewscreen and the sheer silvery backdrop of the starbase. Distant mental pressure pulsed, flickering as if in concert with a rapidly fluttering alien heartbeat.

     The captain took a breath. “Alright, Mr. Sulu. Let’s take her out.”

     “Aye, Captain.” Sulu’s shoulders straightened as he leaned forward slightly, Uhura’s posture matching his as she reached out, hands poised over her own panels. McCoy inhaled and held the breath. “Set,” said Sulu. “On my mark, Uhura. Three…two…one…engage!”

     There was immediate kinesis, the imagined creak and snap of force fields, and they were moving, the starbase suddenly gone from the viewer, flying away.

     “We’re at impulse point eight two, moving in positive-z relative to the starbase,” Sulu intoned.

     “I’m picking up internal alarms, Captain!” Uhura called out. “Starbase defenses scrambling; phaser cannons coming online! They’re broadcasting a warning!”

     She flipped a switch and static burst loudly before a frantic-sounding voice clamored, _“Attention,_ Enterprise _, you are committing a criminal act of aggression that will be met with deadly force. Surrender your vessel and return to dock immediately. There will not be another warning. Repeat, there will not—.”_

     Uhura abruptly cut the channel as she glanced over her shoulder. “I think we’ve got the gist of it.”

     Jim nodded tersely. “Time until warp cut-in?”

     “Thirty-six seconds, sir,” replied the communications officer. “Phaser cannons ranging now. Three single-pilot gunships have just exited the starbase bay doors.”

     “Cat’s out of the bag,” McCoy said.

     “Shields up. Sulu,” Jim commanded. “Push her to point nine.”

     “Shields, aye, sir. Point nine on the gauge.”

     “Twenty seconds now, Captain!”

     “Incoming fire!” called Sulu as the ship shuddered around them and McCoy muttered a curse, gripping the back of Jim’s chair with both hands.

     “Limited phaser barrage,” Uhura clarified. “Hit on aft shields: numbers four and five; nine percent energy loss.” She glanced over her shoulder again, her brow furrowed. “They’re not using full power on the attack, sir. We might just get away with it.”

     “Twelve seconds,” Sulu said. “Powering up warp engines.”

     Jim smacked the intercom. “Kirk to Engineering. Prepare to energize!”

_“She’s ready, sir!”_ cried Alvarez. _“Energizing ambiguite interface now!”_

     “Six…five…four…”

     “Another barrage incoming! Gunships are gaining!”

     “…three…two…one…warp speed!”

_Go_ , Jim thought, leaning forward in concert with his ship’s acceleration. In front of them, the image on the auxiliary control main viewscreen transformed into streaks of scintillating light.

     “Warp one,” said Sulu. “Adjusting spiral vector to avoid tracking. Warp two.”

     “Increase to warp six,” Jim said. “Any pursuit?”

     “Negative,” replied Uhura.

     “Good.” Jim punched the intercom again. “Scotty? Alvarez? How’s it looking down there?”

_“Alvarez here, sir. Flux readings look slightly unstable, but are holding within anticipated limits for now. The configuration is drawing a bit more power than we’d calculated. Commander Scott’s gone down to the primary connection conduit to get a better measure of the draw on the mains.”_

     “Keep me informed. Kirk out.” Jim let out the breath he’d been holding, wincing as another set of spasms raced up his legs.

     “Warp six achieved, sir,” Sulu said.

     “ETA Sigma Doroni system boundary in four point two hours, Captain,” Uhura added, “assuming we’re able to maintain present course and speed.”

     “That’s fast,” McCoy commented.

     “I hope so,” Jim murmured distractedly, swallowing heavily and leaning back in his seat as the star distortions of warp space flew past the viewer. “Damage report form those phaser cannons, Uhura?”

     “Minor energy drop on the shields, Captain,” she replied, shrugging. “We should be able to compensate, if—.”

     “If we don’t experience increasing instability associated with the ambiguite,” Jim finished weakly. He closed his eyes again, listening to his ship, feeling the subtle vibrations of high warp tremble against his skin. His fingers curled around the armrests, damp and clammy with sweat. Prickling pain along his limbs contrasted strongly with shivering chills traveling down his spine and he knew he was going to collapse again if he just sat here; he needed to move. His eyes shot open and he stood up, fighting against waves of dizziness, sparks flashing along the edges of his vision.

     “Uhura, I want you to try hailing the _Reliant_ on a secure frequency. Let Captain Alvarez know we’re coming.” Jim clenched his teeth, hoping his words hadn’t been slurred.

     “Aye, Captain,” responded Uhura immediately. She kept her eyes studiously forward.

     “Mr. Sulu, take the conn,” ordered Jim shortly, dragging in a breath. “Bones, you’re with me.” Jim spun and moved toward the door without waiting for Sulu’s response, or the doctor’s, and once outside, in the stark emptiness of the corridor, he stubbornly kept moving, one foot in front of the other.

     “Jim!” McCoy finally caught up with him several meters away. The doctor grouched under his breath as the scanner beeped close to Jim’s ear. “I can’t give you another shot yet. How do you feel?”

     Jim blindly turned a corner and kept walking. “I’m going to pass out again if I stop. There’s pain, everywhere. I feel weak and chilled, and then I feel heat against my…my mind. I—.” He swallowed. “I don’t know; I have to keep moving. I don’t know why.”

     “Well, you need to stop so I can evaluate you properly. I don’t think this is another instance of a coma. From what I can tell, this is something different, but I don’t understand—.”

     “No, I can’t…stop,” interrupted Jim. He turned the next corner too quickly, stumbling, falling off-balance and practically tumbling against the bulkhead.

     The doctor huffed, hurrying forward to catch and hold the younger man with both arms. “Jim, you have to stop.” He tightened his grip. “Stop! Sit down.”

     Jim struggled for a split second before allowing his friend to guide him to the floor, the doctor crouching next to him.

     McCoy was frowning fiercely. “I can’t confirm this, but I’m going to take a pretty good guess that this has to do with some kind of change in Spock’s condition.” The doctor’s jaw tightened as he fiddled with his scanner. “I’m worried, Jim.

     Leaning against the bulkhead, Jim shook his head minutely. “About Spock? Me, too.”

     McCoy sniffed. “About both of you! About what might be coming at both of you, if we find him.”

     “One thing at a time, Bones.”

     “A trick with a hypospray’s not going to get you out of this one.”

     “I know!” Jim cried suddenly and McCoy’s eyebrows shot up.

     “I know,” repeated Jim intently, “but he’s not fighting to the death this time. His…his intended _wants_ him, this time.” He felt his face grow hot and he gritted his teeth. “ _I_ want him.”

     “This could kill you. _This time_ , it could actually kill you.”

     Jim scowled in instinctive denial, turning his head away, and McCoy stepped determinedly closer.

     “Listen, I don’t mean that he’d strangle you again, although that’s a damn strong possibility if he’s already lost control. I mean—.” McCoy grimaced. “This…connection between you is strong, even with the morinerin. Hell, it even seems to be actively counteracting the morinerin! What if he’s too far gone when we get there? What if he…what if you can’t help but follow him? If you’re experiencing his pain, what if you can’t help but experience the rest of it?”

     “You mean if he dies.”

     “If he dies,” echoed McCoy quietly, “or if he’s insane. Where does that leave you?”

     Jim stared at him. “Probably dead or insane, too,” he said sarcastically, “and you’ll have been proven to be right about all of it.”

     “Dammit!” McCoy exploded. “That’s not the fucking point!”

     “Then what is the point, Doctor?”

     McCoy held his hands out pleadingly. “My god, Jim, I ran on about compromise like I was the damn judge and jury and now here we are. I don’t want to watch him die. I don’t want him to be in pain anymore, or you. I don’t—.” He broke off, running a hand over his mouth. “I don’t want to face this. I mean, insanity? Death? Rape, for god’s sake?”

     “Neither do I,” Jim replied frankly. He was so tired. His eyes shifted away from McCoy’s intense gaze. “And there might not be any coming back from this anyway,” whispered the captain listlessly, “even if we don’t die. Even if we find him and he’s alive and we manage to…to come together and survive. There’s been so much broken, and I’m not even talking about Komack or the service or my ship.” Jim trailed off, lifting his hand to reverently touch the smooth bulkhead next to him, pressing his palm to cool plastisteel. “My ship… .”

     McCoy watched him, remaining silent.

     Jim’s gaze returned to his friend, and he saw something in McCoy’s expression shift. The older man reached out again, his grip on Jim’s upper arm surprisingly firm and supportive, imploring.

     “Spock’s survived this before,” McCoy began, “and it was because of you, Jim. I’ve seen something of his affection for you, despite his best efforts to the contrary, and it’s a formidable thing. I don’t think you can say that a Vulcan can fall in love, at least not in the same way you talk about a human. There’s no romance or clichés; there’s duty and honor and everything that’s not easy: sacrifice and selflessness and intellectual passion.” Bones shook his head. “The only thing that’s the same is the vulnerability: perhaps the universal failing of beings in love.”

     “Bones—.” Jim was fading; his head gently knocking the bulkhead behind him. The pain had somehow ebbed, leaving behind profoundly weak emptiness. Dizziness surged.

     McCoy continued, his blue eyes sad, “He’ll do anything for you, Jim, and that includes staying alive despite every logical impulse telling him to call it in.”

     The captain nodded lethargically. “And I…have to do the same.”

     “Four hours now,” McCoy said. “Let me give you something, Jim. Not the morinerin, but just something to put you out for a while; give you some relief.”

     Jim blinked. “You’re asking me to sleep through the last few hours I’ll ever be in command of a starship? You…know me better than that, Bones.”

     The doctor continued urgently, “And what if the link goes both ways, and Spock’s struggling even more because of the distress he can sense from you? This might give him a break, too.”

     “I don’t think,” Jim mumbled, “it works that way. He needs me. I need him. No, the pain isn’t so bad anymore—.”

     “I know, Jim, but let me help. It’s the only thing I can do for either of you right now. You’re going to need your strength when—.” McCoy trailed off uncomfortably, and a hypospray hissed somewhere in the distance, bringing quick unconsciousness with it.

 

~.~

 

     Jim was on a bed, feeling the weight of presence and memory against his closed eyes, in his skin, with the odd tangible familiarity of the silky material under his fingers and unsure as to whether he was dreaming or not. He imagined himself in Spock’s quarters, enveloped in unusual heat, the air scented lightly with the remnants of incense. Here, in this very room, not meters away, he had finally confronted the Vulcan and first learned about the hidden anguish of the blood fever. Here, too, they had faced each other after the fight in the sands and the revelation of continued life and a sacred connection. Here, Spock had touched his mind and his skin, demonstrating an affection and devotion that was all at once powerful and, as Bones had pointed out, vulnerable. Or portentous, perhaps, cruelly followed by the damage wrought by the Vulcan’s desperate defense against the mind weapon.

     It was becoming heartbreakingly familiar after all: this cycle of devotion and pain and sacrifice. Jim imagined Spock’s face as it had been during the worst of the combat at the _kalifee_ : closed, wrought with mindless fever, dusty with the sands of an indifferent homeworld. Would the Vulcan appear this way now? Would he turn his anguished countenance to the stars; would he somehow know that Jim was coming for him?

     And what would happen afterward, if life persisted and the madness was not absolute? A violent mating wholly unlike the gentle escalation that they had previously shared? Jim’s thoughts shied from that, even as resistant logic informed him it was distinctly probable. So, they would lose something else: something beyond even cruel amnesia. The memories of their relationship had been ripped away and now, too, would be any chance of the slow exploration and the innocent exhilaration of a first love-making.

     To cry of unfairness would only diminish the miracle of continued survival, but Jim wanted, desperately, for the very thing that McCoy had spoken of: he wanted the pain to stop and to not have to face what was most certainly coming. For once, he didn’t want to have to stare down the pitiless road of duty and necessity. Not for this.

     Jim conjured what should have been: the silk-slide of skin and the soft sounds of touching and being touched. He imagined Spock’s head thrown back in hard-won passion, warm hands worshipping, mouths opening to each other. Jim imagined dark hair and dark eyes and the feeling of hard muscle: the prizes of vulnerability and trust and pleasure. It was so real and yet it was all fading; disappearing into darkness and strange chilled silence, and disorientation returned in a different sense as the silky material under his hands transformed into textured sheets and the ambient warmth and incense fell away into cool sterility. Jim’s eyes shot open, feeling achingly bereft. The pain was gone.

     “Bones?” Jim rasped, the ceiling of the sickbay coming into view.

     “Here, Jim,” answered McCoy, coming to stand next to the bed.

     “What did you do? I said I didn’t want—.”

     “You were halfway to unconsciousness already when I gave you the hypo, Jim. I was able to get you hydrated and your blood pressure stabilized. I—.”

     “How long now?” Jim asked sharply, curling his fingers into his palms, reluctant to confirm the presence of the rough bedding underneath him.

     “Less than an hour,” replied Bones quietly. “We’re ahead of schedule; Scotty did his usual magic with the warp drive and we haven’t run into any trouble. How do you feel? Any better? My scans showed you lapsed into regular sleep after a while.”

     “I don’t know,” Jim answered, trying to take stock of himself; the dreamworld still seemed to swirl just out of reach. He was cold, but not shivering. He felt weak and sore, but not terribly so. Bereavement dropped sharply into sick dread. “When did you give me another shot of that stuff?”

     There was a strong pause. “I haven’t given you any more morinerin, Jim,” Bones said carefully.

     “No,” Jim whispered. “Something’s changed. I don’t know—.” The edge of heat was gone; the _pull_ was gone, the pain was gone. A scanner whirred irritatingly near his head and Jim gritted his teeth, rolling to his side and pushing himself up. “Bones, goddammit, if I’ve lost him, I—.”

     The whistle of the intercom sounded like a shriek, raking across Jim’s raw nerves.

     _“Auxiliary control to Captain Kirk!”_

     Jim was immediately on his feet and stumbling across the room as adrenaline burst through his body. He slammed the button on the wall. “Kirk here. Have you raised the _Reliant_?”

     _“Uhura here, Captain. Negative on contact with_ Reliant _, but I have picked up a faint transmission originating from just outside the system boundary.”_ She took an audible breath, as if steadying herself; her voice held an uncharacteristic high note of excitement. _“It’s using Starfleet ciphers, but the encryption is unique, sir. It’s something that I’ve, well,”_ she paused, _“something that I developed myself not eighteen months ago. We might not need to rely on the ambiguite to find him, sir.”_

     Jim’s heart raced, and he fought to keep his composure, sensing McCoy’s approach. “Go on, Nyota.”

     _“The message is a simple space-vector coordinate track, but I can’t imagine anyone other than Mr. Spock would know those encryption patterns, or even—.”_

     “Or even know we were coming,” Jim finished quickly. “Run a scan for vessels along that track.”

     _“Already done, sir. I’ve picked up a single vessel: very small and of Ka’al’erion configuration. It’s running a continuous scrubbing signal to discourage detection, but the trajectory match gave it away. We never would have found it otherwise.”_

     “Adjust course to intercept; try to raise someone onboard. Any sign of other vessels in the vicinity?”

     Sulu replied, _“Course adjusted. We’re coming up on her fast. Three point five minutes until intercept.”_

     “Three minutes?”

     Uhura said, _“It’s tight on the timing, Captain; we would’ve blown right by the ship if that call hadn’t come in. Scans indicate no other vessels within range, though. The vessel’s not responding to hail, but I’m getting two life signs: something indistinct along with…possibly a native bio-signature.”_ She sounded frustrated. _“The first signature might be Vulcan, sir, but I can’t confirm; the scrubbing signal might be interfering.”_

     “He could be in a trance,” McCoy murmured. “If the fever’s advanced that far, it could explain why you feel differently, Jim.”

     The captain shot the doctor a glare, addressing the intercom, “I’m on my way to the transporter room with Doctor McCoy now, Uhura. Get Scotty over there and prepare to beam the two life signs onboard as soon as we’re within range.”

     _“Aye, sir!”_

     The channel clicked over, Uhura’s disembodied voice paging Mr. Scott, and Jim turned determinedly toward the door.

     “Jim!” McCoy sprang after him. “Wait!”

     “Get your kit,” Jim tersely ordered over his shoulder.

     “Dammit.”

     Jim made it almost to the turbolift doors before the doctor appeared again at his side, breathing heavily.

     “Jim, wait! Before we go down there, I have something to say.”

     “I don’t have time.”

     “You have three minutes! Listen to me!”

     “What?” Jim rounded on his friend. “What is it?”

     McCoy’s lip curled as he rolled his eyes. “I have to be the one urging caution here?” He scowled. “What if this is a trap? What if it’s a trick? Spock might not even be on that ship, Jim; it could be something else entirely!”

     “Starfleet codes? Uhura’s personal encryption? The external system trajectory?”

     “There’s no proof. Jim, you can’t even be sure yourself with the…with your… .” McCoy gestured loosely toward Jim’s head.

     “With the bond?” Jim said challengingly, stepping closer. “I might have, if I hadn’t been asleep.”

     McCoy shook his head tightly. “It isn’t like you to just rush into a situation like this. Take it slower. Evaluate the potential dangers.”

     “ _Potential_ dangers? We can’t raise the _Reliant_ ,” Jim listed. “We’re on the edges of a hostile system and are wanted criminals according our own service. We have no idea of the state of the larger conflict and I’m,” he grimaced, “convinced that Spock’s out of time.”

     “Jim—.”

     “I can’t _feel_ him anymore. Not even the pain. You’re right about the dangers, but some…gut instinct is telling me that whether Spock’s on that ship or a hundred light-years away, he doesn’t have much time left. My… _his_ only chance is to be aboard that ship. Our only—.”

     The captain’s fervent words were interrupted by a loud bang and creak, and the ship shuddered around them, automatic alert lights flashing garish hues. Jim fell to his knees, hearing the muted groan of strained infrastructure as he crawled to the nearby intercom panel.

     “Kirk to aux control! Report situation!”

     _“Scott here, sir! Th’ energy flux associated with tha’ ambiguite matrix sharply increased as we began our deceleration toward tha’ ship. It’s blown out th’ outer shell of th’ primary connection conduit. Th’ mains are down an’ we’ve dropped ta sub-light!”_

     “How far are we from the intercept?”

     _“We can proceed in on impulse, Captain. Five minutes until we’re within extreme transporter range, bu’ we’ll be a sittin’ duck out here! Shields took a hit an’ we’ve lost all warp maneuvering until Ah can get down there an’ try ta sort this mess out!”_

     “Get to Engineering and do what you can. I’ll operate the transporter.” Jim plunged toward the turbolift with a shaken McCoy on his heels.

     “This is about what I expected,” groused the doctor. “Ship’s in pieces and we’re heading into a trap. No extra hands available and I’m not even going to—.”

     “Stow it, Doctor,” Jim barked, staring intently at the flashing indicators as the lift descended. “We’ve been in worse situations.”

     “I know!” McCoy exclaimed. He had opened the portable surgical kit and was examining the contents. “How do you feel, Jim, truthfully? If you’re about to keel over, you have to let me know; if Spock’s still alive I’m gonna need your help.”

     “I’ve been worse,” Jim muttered. He met McCoy’s hard stare. “I’ll be fine. Whatever happened in the last few hours seemed to decouple things somehow. It’s not nearly as bad as it was.”

     The doctor nodded grimly. “And that doesn’t mean it won’t get bad again once you two are reunited.”

     Jim ignored him, bursting through the opening doors and down the short distance to the main transporter room. Nurse Dvorak and the unconscious Starbase guards had been long removed, and the room echoed, the red alert lighting flashing ominously. The captain moved behind the console as McCoy trotted in.

     “Set the indicators for incoming medical or security alert,” the doctor ordered. “Ready emergency stasis fields.”

     “I know.” Jim flipped a series of controls before turning to the small security locker nearby and removing a phaser. He glanced at McCoy and the doctor nodded in readiness.

     _“Aux control to Captain,”_ Uhura said over the intercom. _“Now approaching the other vessel. It’s dropped out of warp and is stationary, sir. No signs of hostility, but I still can’t raise anyone. The scrubbing signal has ceased, but the life signs aren’t any clearer. I don’t know what’s going to be coming over, Captain.”_

     “I’ve got it on sensors now, Lieutenant,” Jim replied. “If this goes bad, you’re ordered to shut down environmental and seal off this deck. Take whatever action you need to protect your lives and try to get to the rest of fleet elsewhere in the system.” He waited. “Uhura?”

     _“Understood, sir,”_ she replied. _“Good luck.”_

     “To us all,” he murmured, closing the channel. “Thirty seconds.”

     Closer to the platform, McCoy stood ready, and Jim counted down the interminable time in his head, his eyes fixed on the indicators and on the phaser lying next to the screens. He couldn’t feel anything; he imagined he _should_ feel something, if his bondmate was so close. Jim had exaggerated his condition slightly to the doctor: he was still weak, dizziness still hovering on the edges of his vision, phantom chills playing over his nerves. Something in him was still broken, yearning, crying out without answer.

     “Energizing!” Jim slid the levers up, hearing the familiar chime begin as the system engaged. He held his breath as he saw two indistinct, huddled figures begin to coalesce on the pads. _Please… ._

     “Spock!” McCoy’s triumphant shout was cut short at the sight of the pale, unmoving figure curled on the transporter platform. And, next to the Vulcan, scrambling away in a flurry of long limbs, was another being, a strange mixture of Ka’al’erion and Aliz’it, its mouth open in a silent scream as it pressed back against the rear of the chamber, a streak of dark blood across its face.

     “Bones, stay back!” Jim ordered, his voice breaking. He peered over the console, seeing the creature’s eyes flash back and forth between himself and the doctor. McCoy took a single involuntary step forward and Jim caught a gleam of silver in the creature’s hand. The captain didn’t hesitate, reaching for his phaser and firing a quick stun burst into the creature’s body. It slumped to the side, a slim hand-held weapon falling to the platform in front of it, it’s mouth hanging open.

     McCoy advanced, the kit already open as he knelt at the Vulcan’s side. “Jim, get over here!”

     The captain kept his eyes on the other being, making sure it wasn’t moving. He kicked its weapon away, toward the doors, before crouching next to his friends.

     “He’s alive,” McCoy hissed, “but just barely. We don’t have to worry about violence, he’s a mess: new injuries, dehydration. I don’t think he’s in a trance; his adrenaline analogues are through the roof and threatening organ failure and there’s something in his bloodstream that I’ve never seen before. A drug? Dammit, even like this his pain levels are too high—.”

     Jim stared at the Vulcan as the doctor continued to mutter. Spock’s skin was deathly ashen underneath the grime and dried blood, his eyes half-open and unseeing. He was dressed in a filthy, ill-fitting jumpsuit, his hair matted. McCoy was cutting away the fabric around what appeared to be moderately fresh wounds, inserting an intravenous line. There was no movement, no spark, no mental burst of recognition. Spock’s hands fell limply on the platform.

     “I’ve got to get him to sickbay! Jim, unfold that emergency gurney over here and help me get him up on it. Jim!”

     The captain nodded dumbly and stood, and then was halted in his tracks by a low hiss from across the platform.

     “Jim?” The creature’s eyes had opened, its head lolling slightly, its limbs twitching.

     “Yes,” Jim answered warily, the phaser held tightly in his hand.

     McCoy kept working, his back turned to the creature, offering only a single alarmed glance up at the captain.

     “You are Jim,” the creature repeated, its accent turning the captain’s name into a sibilant noise. The fear and panic it had exhibited just moments earlier seemed to disappear in its hopeful, almost triumphant repetition of the captain’s name. “ _T’hy’la_?”

     Jim’s breath caught at the Vulcan word, recognizable even with alien pronunciation.

     “We have succeeded. Spock—.” The creature closed its eyes briefly as it let out a wheezing sound. Its body shifted again, almost painfully. “Spock fell to sickness. Needed his mate.” The creature wheezed again. “And you will help us, the _vjilerit_. Against Starfleet. Against the _nli’ni’ripahn_. Justice for you, and for us. We need you as well.”

     “Jim!” McCoy spun. “He’s coming around, Jim!”

     And the captain heard his bondmate whisper, cracked and hoarse. “Help Ghori. She is injured.”

     The creature’s—Ghori’s—eyes had closed again, and Jim backed up to crouch again by his friends’ sides. “Spock? Can you hear me?” he asked. The link between them was still stubbornly silent.

     “Jim?” Dark eyes were barely open, and the Vulcan’s features were suddenly creased with pain, his hands clenching closed and his shoulders drawing up. “Jim?”

     “It’s alright, Spock. I’m here.” Jim reached for him with one hand but Spock curled away, bringing his fists against his chest.

     “Don’t touch me! The bond will…will seek to complete itself and you will be drawn… .”

     Jim winced at the visible play of agony across his friend’s features. “I can’t feel you. I can’t feel our bond.” Another hypospray hissed.

     Spock blinked, as if recalling something. “You remember?”

     “I remember everything,” Jim said softly. “After we lost you, Bones gave me a drug to counteract—.” He broke off. “It doesn’t matter, except that it blocked the effects of some of the damage for a time. I remembered.”

     Spock closed his eyes. “ _T’hy’la t’nesh-veh_. I am so…sorry.”

     Jim leaned closer, unable to bear the distance between them. “I think I was remembering anyway, slowly. I said I’ll see you after, but only gods knew how long that would be. And the fever—.”

     “The pain is…mostly past,” Spock whispered, his eyes opening again. “Ghori’s people are in grave danger. You must…help them. You must stop Komack.” His words sounded like a goodbye, and Jim stubbornly reached out for his friend’s hand a second time, seeing McCoy’s eyes widen.

     “Do not touch me!” Spock commanded suddenly, twisting away again. “I am dying, Jim. The fever became too much for the remaining, damaged connection. It…collapsed to a mere thread, and I allowed it to collapse to spare you…I will not allow you to risk falling with me. You are needed.”

     “ _You’re_ needed, Spock,” pleaded Jim. “ _I_ need you.”

     “Jim,” McCoy whispered.

     “Save him, Doctor,” Jim ordered desperately.

     The faintest softness curved the Vulcan’s lips as his eyes closed again. “ _Talukh nash-veh k’du, t’hy’la_.”

     “Goddammit, Bones!”

     “Jim, there’s nothing I can do for him. You have to—.”

     “Get out,” Jim spat. “Like you said, you’ve done what you can. Now it’s my turn.”

     “To do what?” McCoy asked, grasping Jim’s upper arm. “He said the bond had collapsed! He said there’s a risk that you’ll die if you touch him! What are you going to do? You can’t save him! You can’t—.” McCoy’s intently lowered voice trailed off helplessly. “You can’t do what he needs, Jim. Not in his condition!”

     Jim shook him off. The emptiness inside him was expanding even more, falling into inevitable, jagged grief, and still something screamed out for any kind of completion.

     “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Doctor. I don’t know! But he didn’t mate before at the _kalifee_ and he didn’t die then. Maybe there’s another way. Maybe he’s human enough that there’s another way.” He shoved at McCoy’s arm. “Call Uhura and tell her the situation. Get Ghori down to sickbay. I’ll call you when…when I can. If I can.”

     “Jesus, Jim, you don’t know what this’ll do to you!”

     “He does know,” Ghori said softly from her place against the far wall. “He does know and is not afraid.”

     “Go, Bones. Now.”

     McCoy’s eyes travelled down to the phaser held determinedly in his best friend’s hand. Realization crossed his face and he shook his head, slowly standing, his hands held out in front of him. “I’m going, Jim.” He licked his lips, backing away a step. “Keep the lines in. Keep the monitors on.”

     “Go,” Jim whispered. His eyes fell to his bondmate even as the phaser maintained its aim. He listened to McCoy’s muffled reassurances, hearing Ghori’s grunt and wheeze as she stood, supported by the doctor. Jim listened to their shuffled footsteps across the room, past the fallen alien weapon and out to the corridor. The door slid shut.

     “Computer, engage security lock,” Jim said quietly, letting the phaser drop from his fingers. He looked at his hand, at the lines and creases of skin, at the movement of tendons. He remembered the _ozh’esta_ , and its deeply felt significance. He recalled Spock’s blinding smile as they had been reunited after the _kalifee_. _Oh, to see that again, my friend._ Jim thought of trust, and friendship, and love. He nodded once, and reached for a third time, feeling Spock’s fingers intertwine with his own. And when the longed-for mental contact came, it was a conflagration.

 

 


	19. Logic Suggests

Chapter Nineteen: Logic Suggests

 

     Spock’s beleaguered senses had sharply registered his captain’s desperation and the doctor’s agitation pouring into an already roiling emotional landscape. The Vulcan couldn’t speak or move; his strength had been depleted against the seething agony of the blood fever and the shivering, damaged vestige of their bond.

     Jim was saying something, his voice unnaturally strident. McCoy was answering, and Ghori’s alien resonance was thrown into the background behind the ferocity of the two humans’ emotions. In the diminishing, ragged corner of Spock’s mind where lucidity still survived, obstinance warred with helpless longing. _He needed Jim._ Jim did not understand. _He wanted nothing more than the solace of his friend’s mind and body._ The bond would drag his _t’hy’la_ into a terrible place of inevitable biology and there would be no escape for either of them. _That is the ancient way—together or not at all_. Jim will suffer! Jim will die! _He is mine._ He has never consented to this; he never would, now that he sees, now that he truly knows….

     The shock of contact pulled Spock out of delirium. He felt the coolness of Jim’s skin against his own: human flesh and blood, stubbornness and bravery and love. He sensed defiant belligerence in his friend’s complete resolve, buoyed not by arrogance but by acute awareness of previous losses. _No! Jim, please. Do not—._ But Jim’s fingers tightened, and any shreds of rationality were swallowed in a primitive, yearning shriek of blistering heat. Spock was helpless to stop it, helpless to do anything but reflect, finally, that at least his body was too depleted to force a physical joining.

 

~.~

           

     This might have been hell: searing heat and a powerful, anguished need that seemed impossible to satisfy. Jim fought to keep his grip on his friend’s hand as he was enveloped. Fire burned behind his eyes, in the deepest recesses of his mind, searching, struggling against the damage wrought on La’ripka and by Spock’s self-imposed, protective distance. The captain was overwhelmed by hopelessness and an unwavering sense that it was all too late and impossible anyway. There was no cure. No way to consummate this physically, no way to stem the pain and bring relief. No way to win. Jim thought he might be screaming; he thought he might be dying. He struggled, hearing the hoarse sound of his own voice shifting into the raucous jangle of alien bells, as dry and shrill as the howling of a desert wind.

     Jim pictured the icy stoicism of T’Pring’s face and thought of desperate choices scratched out of a cruelly compulsory situation. Choices made in defiance of logic, which would have instead suggested a yielding to—.

 

_A yielding._

_No way to consummate this physically._

_Maybe he’s human enough that there’s another way._

 

     Jim gritted his teeth, thinking of the powerful intimacy of the meld and of the Vulcan mind-body connection. Physical release was not possible, but emotional release was surely important. Perhaps just as important, and, in a half-Vulcan bonded to a human, perhaps even more so. But how? Spock had broken out of the _plak tow_ after a powerful emotional trauma. Jim had no wish to inflict another such strain, but perhaps there was another angle to be attempted that would exploit a different kind of intensity, a different kind of intimacy. For _this_ half-Vulcan, and particularly with their damaged and denied bond, Jim hypothesized that emotional satisfaction might fulfill a biological requirement, or at least aid in its release.

     Each man had been searching for something that was only found within the other: a place to rest, a place to belong, a partner of flesh and blood able to share a strenuous and exceptional journey, a lens through which an identity could finally be defined. Maybe there was another way and it was a simple thing after all. _A release. An acceptance._ Jim imagined the destructive and uncontrolled emotional energy crackling between them, looking for a path, a ground, searching, needing a bondmate’s comfort….

_The bond must complete itself. No more holding back, no more waiting, no more self-preservation and fear and over-protection. Now, with full knowledge, with full purpose, without reservation._ Unseeing, Jim reached instinctively with his other hand, somehow finding Spock’s face and approximating the meld points. Jim forced himself to relax every barrier, to lay down any resistance and leave his soul bare to the onslaught. _Come home to me, my friend. Come home._

 

~.~

 

     With Jim’s physical touch, brutal isolation burst wide open as Spock’s mind lunged toward his mate in blind, primitive need, the bond attempting to restore itself. Spock was lost, certain that he himself would succumb to insanity and then death, cognizant of the danger of Jim falling into the same fate. He was lost, and then—.

     On T’Khut, fierce heat of day always yielded to evening, the relentless red tones of the sky always calmed, and milder colors emerged from the rock surrounding Shi’Kahr. Something like dusk was mounting now, bringing glimmering awareness back to Spock’s mind, muting the raw, red savagery of the fever in favor of a calmer, gentler darkness. Perhaps this was death, finally. Perhaps it was over.

     _Come home._

     The call was so simple and yet resounded in his mind. Unbelievably, the raging fever was breaking, the surging emotions ebbing, being accepted by a very human mind. Energy was released to flow between them, following each emotion from one mind to the other, accepting and accepted, healing, restoring.

     The accompanying sensations were euphoric, approximating the thrill of physical release, but holding something more fulfilling. The waves crested and then calmed, and Spock opened his eyes to see Jim’s heavy-lidded hazel gaze.

     “You alright?”

     Jim’s voice was hoarse and cracked, his skin pale and drawn. His hair stuck to his forehead. His mind, however, was still blooming brightly within Spock’s and held deep strength.

     Spock opened his mouth but couldn’t find his voice. His body hurt, lingering muscle cramps and injury causing bruising aches up and down his limbs. He could barely feel his fingers, though he somehow knew Jim was holding his hand. He pushed a mental affirmative weakly along their bond.

     Jim managed a lopsided smile. “Bull,” he croaked, leaning forward to press a kiss gently to his bondmate’s temple before collapsing back to lie alongside Spock. He did not release his hand.

     “I have to get McCoy back in here,” Jim whispered. “I can feel how bad you are.” His voice solidified. “But you’re not going to die. I can feel that, too. Am I right?”

     There was no sign of it in the captain’s voice, but Spock could feel mental echoes of vulnerability. The Vulcan tried to squeeze his friend’s hand in reply, hearing Jim’s answering exhale.

     “Alright.” Jim cleared his throat. “Computer, disengage security lock.” The soft beep sounded nearly at the same time as the doors slid open and McCoy barreled in.

     “Jesus Christ,” hissed the doctor, falling to his knees next to the two prone men. “You’re both still alive.”

     “You were waiting out there?” Jim asked lightly.

     “Pressed against the damn door,” McCoy exploded as he opened his medkit. “What else do I have to do but stand around and wait to put you two back together? I’ve had to deal with nerve pinches, being held at phaser-point, locked out of rooms, having to stand by while psionic weapons discharge and Spock self-destructs. I’ve been bullied and lied to and subjected to Vulcan evasion and human stupidity.” He emptied two hyposprays into Spock’s shoulder and eyed Jim. “What the hell happened? How the hell are you two still alive? Thank heaven you’re still alive.”

     “I don’t know,” Jim replied. “I had a hypothesis and—.”

     “You had a hypothesis?” McCoy growled. “That figures. Your damn hypothesis versus thousands of years of Vulcan biology and mysticism and research.” He shook his head. “I can guess which came out on top.”

     “That’s the thing, Bones,” Jim mumbled. “No one had to come out on top.”

     “Are you…are you _joking_?” McCoy yelped incredulously. “Are you trying to make a _joke_ , Captain? You son of a…dammit. Spock? Can you hear me? Spock?”

     Spock’s eyes had closed. His mind was raw, open, and, except for the shelter of the still-new bond, unprotected. He could feel darkness approaching again, but this time it was welcome unconsciousness. And Jim was still holding his hand.

              

~.~

 

     “Spock. Spock, wake up. C’mon.” Jim’s voice was calm and encouraging, his presence warm in the Vulcan’s mind.

     Spock’s eyes opened to the familiar sight of sickbay’s ceiling. He turned his head slightly, seeing his bondmate sitting up on the adjacent biobed, legs dangling over the side. Jim was smiling, but there was worry in his eyes. The bay was oddly silent; Spock could not hear the engines.

     “That’s it,” Jim continued encouragingly. “You’ve been out for almost twenty hours. No trance this time?”

     Spock swallowed dryly. “Jim.”

     The human’s smile broadened. “I missed hearing that, my friend.” His brow furrowed. “I couldn’t feel you when you were out. I have to concentrate to feel you now.”

     “Not…unexpected,” Spock managed. “It…should not be…distracting. And you are human.”

     “Well, it’s a little distracting,” Jim said, his smile briefly resurfacing. “Bones had to have you in for surgery and to flush out any traces of that alien drug.” He grimaced. “He did the latter to me, too, to get the morinerin completely out of my system.” He paused, eyes searching Spock’s face. “How do you feel?”

     “Adequate,” Spock replied. In truth, his senses were dulled and his mental shields still weak. His body ached and he was acutely aware of the painkillers and other medications that the doctor had apparently administered. His sense of the bond, however, was immediate, and the small distance between them seemed disturbing. He shifted on the bed, his fingers moving slightly. Jim slid down from the adjoining bed and didn’t hesitate to clasp Spock’s hand again.

     “How do you really feel?” Jim insisted.

     Spock blinked slowly, allowing the smallest curve to his own lips as he evaded the question. “Ship’s status?”

     Jim let out a bark of laughter and straightened his shoulders. “Just about the usual, Commander. Warp engines are presently down but are supposedly being repaired. We’re hiding out in a dust cloud at the fringes of the Doroni system with less than a skeleton crew.” He cocked an eyebrow. “And we’re hiding from our own fleet as well as the Ka’al’erion and Aliz’it, I might add. Komack’s in charge of a battle group that has gained control of the system and his actions have rendered normal Starfleet and Federation officials reluctant to take any sort of definitive action. That psionic weapon remains at large,” Jim’s eyes hardened, “and I spoke to Ghori at length.”

     “The beings we met on La’ripka were—.”

     “The resistance, yes,” Jim finished. “And the last piece of the puzzle as to why that tragedy unfolded the way it did.”

     “I don’t understand,” Spock said.

     “Federation mandate 893-45-D12, or the ‘altruism rule’,” Jim answered quietly, pulling his hand away and crossing his arms. He was shifting with irritated energy. “Recently proposed by Vulcan and still officially off the books.” He shook his head. “If the resistance had revealed the true situation, with the existence of the _vjilerit_ , the Federation would have had to restrict its interest and activity solely to compassionate causes instead of dilithium. Komack would have known that this system would have fallen neatly within the rule’s language and this situation would most likely have pushed the mandate into immediate effect.”

     “Of course.” Spock closed his eyes briefly, troubled that he himself had not made that connection. “You have then proven Admiral Komack to be the instigator?”

     Jim made a face. “Right now, we just have a good story and the damning fact of the admiral’s battle group in the system.” He raised his eyebrows. “Along with a few convenient coincidences, of course, as Bones puts it.”

     “The psionic weapon,” Spock said.

     Jim held up one finger. “One.” He held up two fingers. “And two, the shuttle attack on our way to the revived negotiations.”

     “Indeed,” Spock said. He swallowed, his eyes on his bondmate’s raised hand. “Jim, how did you know—?”

     “To come back for you?” Jim finished. “Would you believe your mother called Bones when she found out that you were missing?”

     “My—.” Spock blinked, recalling his message to his mother after the _kalifee_ and his intentionally cryptic mention of an _appropriate arrangement_. “Doctor McCoy—?”

     Jim tilted his head slightly, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he crossed his arms again. “I don’t think she knows who your significant other is, but she inferred that you had one, that they were, by necessity, on the _Enterprise_ , and that McCoy would have a medical stake in what might be happening. She gave Bones enough information to figure out what was influencing me, and to try the morinerin-B to snap me out of it. The important corollary was that he knew you were still alive somewhere if I was being affected like that.” The smile faded. “And he knew that you wouldn’t be alive for very long.”

     Spock swallowed again. “He had been aware of the return of the symptoms of _pon farr_.”

     “He was also aware that you didn’t intend to tell me about it,” Jim said pointedly.

     “Your memory was affected. What would you have me do?”

     “I would have you tell me,” Jim insisted, stepping closer to the bed. “ _Tell_ me.”

     Spock struggled with the thin sickbay sheet, fighting to sit up, bracing himself with weakened arms against sudden breathlessness. “I had twice damaged you, _t’hy’la_. Once in body and once in mind, and both to the point of death. I would not do so again, given the choice.”

     “But you didn’t have a choice!”

     “In this, I did. I chose not to inflict more pain upon you. And it was not simply the absence of memory, Jim. I could sense your reticence, your fear, after my interference.”

     “After you saved my life,” amended the captain.

     “When I _forced_ your mind on La’ripka, I largely destroyed something that is sacred in my culture and, more importantly, sacred to me. Your subconscious and what remained of the damaged bond could not accept me after that, and I would not force you again. I chose your life over mine.” Spock knew his expression was wholly uncontrolled and he set his jaw, lifting his chin. “Duty and emotional requirement aligned.”

     “That’s bull,” Jim countered firmly, leaning even closer. “It was an injury, Spock, resulting from a vicious attack. Trauma to you and to me. The morinerin alleviated enough of the immediate effects for me to regain my memories and realize what had happened, but your mind was never fully gone from mine; I knew it when you fell deeper into fever!”

     “I regret—.”

     “No, that’s not what I meant! I bet the trauma might have re-initiated the fever in the first place, just as it instilled those false perceptions in me and we were just making it worse by staying apart from each other. I was unsure and defensive, even scared of you, and you were intensely guilty and certain of the inevitability of hurting me. We had to come together to heal. We had to touch…we had to _connect_.”

     “What transpired in the transporter room should not have been successful in ending the _plak tow_ ,” Spock murmured roughly, wincing at the near memory of blinding fear. “Logically, it should not—.”

     “Logic demanded it,” Jim exclaimed. “Think about it, Spock! We can distill this down into chemical cause and biological effect, but essentially it comes down to body and mind. We each had to reach for something that was desperately needed; something that was as shocking in its intimacy as any physical expression could be. And I don’t know if it cured your condition for good, but it kept you alive. It brought you back to a place where we can start again.”

     Spock breathed in, tasting the air scented with his bondmate’s skin. Jim was so close to him.

     “Everything you are,” Jim said softly, “is everything I need.”

     Spock wanted to touch him, touch his hair, directly feel the psi-energy along his fingers as he caressed the meld points on the human’s face, already sensing it crackle along their bond.

     “ _Pon farr_ ,” began the Vulcan quietly, “is much like _t’hy’la_. Both concepts that are too significant to be conveyed by simple translation or euphemism. Both are rarely spoken of.”

     Jim was gazing at him, hazel eyes soft, his body relaxed. Humor was again playing at the corners of the human’s mouth. “I’m getting a lecture now?”

     “Both concepts are,” continued Spock, “quintessentially Vulcan, deriving from the most ancient history of the Vulcan people.” He paused. “Despite their origins, however, I see very little that was Vulcan about your impetuous action on behalf of a _vre’kasht_ half-blood _t’hy’la_ suffering from the _plak tow_. When you touched me, you might have died.”

     Jim smiled. “Logic suggested that I simply yield to the greater situation, Mr. Spock.” His eyes flickered down to Spock’s lips. “Perhaps I might suggest that you do the same.”

     “Jim.” Spock had only time to speak his bondmate’s name before a warm, human mouth touched his own, before Jim’s hands rose to cradle his face and Vulcan senses were overwhelmed by a sea of touch and thought and feeling. The kiss was gentle, almost delicate, and Spock swayed with unexpected dizziness, hearing Jim make a small noise like a sob and then a chuckle, shifting closer to murmur into Spock’s hair as the Vulcan’s head fell to Jim’s shoulder.

     “We’re going to be alright, my friend.”

     Spock closed his eyes, content for Jim to hold him, losing himself in the colorful play of the human’s emotions. And he did not move even as he heard inevitable footsteps approaching and the doctor clear his throat.

     “Well, this is something I never thought I’d see,” said McCoy gruffly.

     Jim chuckled again. “What’s that, Bones? Open demonstration of affection?”

     “No,” McCoy retorted smartly, “I meant that the engines are back online and neither of you noticed.”

     Spock lifted his head, feeling Jim do the same. Indeed, the odd silence was gone, replaced by the characteristic harmonic of the main energizers. The captain took a small step back. “Scotty worked another miracle.”

     The doctor harrumphed. “A miracle would have been the engines not going down in the first place,” he said dryly. “Now that I’ve given you the good news, do you want the bad?”

     “Bad?” Jim asked immediately.

     “Three things,” McCoy replied. “First, Ghori is presently in auxiliary control, guarded by Nurse Dvorak.”

     “Dvorak?” Jim asked, eyes widening. “From the base?”

     McCoy shrugged. “Obviously, I needed help; I had my hands full with the two of you, and Ghori as well. Dvorak assured me he’d put his medical responsibility first and, after hearing Ghori’s story as well as seeing Spock alive, he seems content to help.”

     The captain’s brow furrowed. “How is Ghori?”

     “She’s stabilized,” McCoy replied, “but her overall physical condition is extremely poor, as far as I can tell. She’s refusing to remain here in sickbay, though, and I am reluctant, given her past, to try to confine her in any way.”

     “Of course,” Jim said. “Second?”

     The doctor sighed. “Second, I’ve run Spock’s bloodwork, and, although his physical and mental functioning are returning to normal levels, there’s still a hormonal imbalance that’s on par with what I saw before the whole marriage debacle, and it’s not getting better.” He shrugged again. “I mean, it’s not getting worse, either, and it’s only been a day or so, but I don’t think we’re out of the woods yet on that front.”

     “I guess we are going to have to do it the old-fashioned way after all,” Jim quipped dryly.

     “Are you kidding?” McCoy snapped, levelling a stylus at the captain. “There’s no way I’m clearing you for anything of the sort until _he’s_ ,” he re-directed the stylus toward Spock, “further along in his recovery.”

     “I am here, Doctor,” Spock said tiredly. “You may address me directly.”

     “I’m still mad at you for that nerve pinch,” McCoy retorted.

     “I—,” Spock began.

     “Never mind!” interrupted the doctor, evidently feeling emboldened. He peered at the Vulcan. “You look better. How are you feeling? Agitated?”

     “I am—.” Spock paused, glancing at his bondmate. Jim nodded to him. “I am experiencing difficulty with my mental shields and emotional control. I am unable to effectively control pain presently, or properly regulate body function.”

     “Or use your healing trance,” McCoy added. “I bet you feel better with Jim near you, though.”

     Spock deliberately did not answer and the doctor sighed again. “I don’t think you two should be separated right now. Chalk it down to a gut feeling, but I’m going to go with it. Can you stand, Spock?”

     “I am weak, but functional, Doctor,” Spock replied, pushing against the surface of the biobed and placing his weight on his feet. His muscles immediately protested, the dizziness beginning to return, but he lifted his chin, meeting McCoy’s eyes directly.

     The doctor scowled. “Right. So, not really, but you’re going to do it anyway.”

     Jim was watching silently, his arms crossed again. “And third, Bones?”

     McCoy licked his lips. “The third thing is that Uhura just picked up a faint, scrambled transmission that she believes is from the _Reliant_.”

     “The _Reliant_?” Jim’s shoulders straightened as his body fell into its usual command lines. “Finally. What does—?”

     “I don’t know what it says,” McCoy interrupted. “Uhura’s working on it. She asked if you were able to come up to auxiliary control, and I told her I’d let her know.”

     Jim answered Spock’s unspoken question. “Captain Alvarez was our point of contact in this system; she’s given us intelligence on Komack’s battle group and the status of operations here, but we haven’t heard from her since we arrived.”

     “I assume Lieutenant Alvarez is onboard the _Enterprise_?” Spock asked. He clasped his hands behind his back to hide their obvious trembling, surreptitiously leaning against the edge of the biobed.

     “She is,” answered Jim. “She had some fancy uses for ambiguite regarding practical warp-cloaking and she holds significant loyalty to you personally for having saved her life.”

     “Fascinating,” Spock murmured. “Warp-cloaking?”

     “How else were we going to steal the ship and sneak into the system?” Jim rejoined. He turned to the doctor. “Got something for us to wear other than these blue jumpsuits?”

     McCoy nodded. “Yeah, I’ve got a couple sets of uniform blacks for you.” He jerked his thumb at the table near the wall.

     “Good,” Jim said. “We’ll—.”

     _“Auxiliary control to sickbay. Doctor McCoy, respond, please.”_

     The captain moved rapidly past the doctor and punched the wall intercom. “Kirk here, Uhura. What do you have?”

     _“Captain! Message received from the_ Reliant _.”_ The communications officer’s voice paused. _“Origination identity confirmed, but I’m still working on cleaning it up. What I have sounds like a distress call, sir, and a request to relay to Command. I’ve deciphered coordinates; Doroni forces have apparently mounted a counter-offensive on the battle group. It sounds as though—.”_

     “What is it, Uhura?”

     _“It sounds as though the psionic weapon has been discharged again, sir. Starfleet casualties.”_

     Jim’s expression hardened. “I’m on my way, Lieutenant. Confirm coordinates and I want Scotty to have an offensive status report ready when I get there. Relay what you have along the Starfleet priority channel. Kirk out.” The captain pressed the intercom switch again and turned, looking at his two friends.

     “And what if that was Komack trying to trick us into giving up our position?” hissed McCoy.

     “If it was, then the _Reliant_ and Captain Alvarez have been compromised and it’s just a matter of turning ourselves in sooner rather than later. If it wasn’t, then they’ll need any help we can give them. Spock? I can use you up there, but….” He trailed off.

     “I shall accompany you, Captain,” Spock replied firmly.

     “Me, too,” McCoy added. “Might as well all go down together.”

     Jim was already shouldering out of his jumpsuit, reaching for the uniform top. “No one’s going down without a fight, Bones. Give Spock a hand, will you?” He tossed the doctor the second set of clothes and stepped into his pants, hopping slightly.

     “Sure.” McCoy caught the uniform and eyed Spock. The Vulcan was slowly pulling the jumpsuit off his upper body, exposing dark bruising and lingering marks from surgery.

     “Take it easy,” McCoy said, his tone gentler. “Your hands are shaking.”

     “It is no matter.”

     “Let me help you,” the doctor insisted. He ducked his head, meeting Spock’s eyes, his voice rich with significance. “Please, Spock, this time, let me help you.”

     Spock acquiesced, accepting the doctor’s assistance. Through the bond, he could sense Jim’s near-impatience warring with worry, a desire for Spock’s presence combating a stubborn wish for the Vulcan to rest. Spock pulled on an offered pair of boots and straightened, allowing the doctor to clasp and hold his upper arm in support.

     McCoy cleared his throat. “You’re staying where I can see you,” he growled, looking away and blinking rapidly. Spock sensed the older man’s affection, well-hidden as it was.

     “Ready?” Jim asked, coming to Spock’s other side and wrapping a similarly-supporting arm around the Vulcan’s waist. Far from being jarring, their emotional energy was bolstering, their presence galvanizing. Spock was reminded of the solace he had found in the background of human minds after the shock of the _kalifee_.

     “Thank you,” Spock murmured, feeling his bondmate’s fingers tighten in response.

     “Let’s go,” Jim ordered.

 

 


End file.
